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THE 


TALKING HORSE 


BY - 

F. AN STE Y 

AUTHOR OF 



“vice versa,” “the giant’s ROBE,” THE TINTED VENUS 
“the PARIAH,” “A FALLEN IDOL,” ETC. 



NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 


0 


I 




. Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. ' 
. . {All rights reserved,} 





- i. 



THE TALKING HORSE. 


It was on the way to Sandown Park that I mei him 
first, on that horribly wet July afternoon when 
Bendigo won the Eclipse Stakes. He sat opposite to 
me in the train going down, and my attention was 
first attracted to him by the marked contrast between 
his appearance and his attire ; he had not thought fit 
to adopt the regulation costume for such occasions, 
and I think I never saw a man who had made himself 
more aggressively horsey. The mark of the beast 
was sprinkled over his linen : he wore snaffle sleeve- 
links, a hard hunting-hat, a Newmarket coat, and 
extremely tight trousers. And with all this, he fell as 
far short of the genuine sportsman as any stage super 
who ever wore his spurs upside down in a hunting- 
chorus. His expression was mild and inoffensive, and 
his watery pale eyes and receding chin gave one the 
idea that he was hardly to be trusted astride anything 
more spirited than a gold-headed cane. And yet, 
somehow, he aroused compassion rather than any 
sense of the ludicrous : he had that look of shrinking 
self-effacement which comes of a recent humiliation, 
and, in spite of all extravagances, he was obviously a 
gentleman ; while something in his manner indicated 
that his natural tendency would, once at all events, 
have been to avoid any kind of extremes. 


6 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


He puzzled and interested me so much that I did 
my best to enter into conversation with him, only to 
be baffled by the jerky embarrassment with which he 
met all advances, and when we got put at Esher, 
curiosity led me to keep him still in view. 

Evidently he had not come with any intention of 
making money. He avoided the grand stand, with 
the bookmakers huddling in couples, like hoarse love- 
birds ; he kept away from the members’ inclosure, 
where the Guards’ band was endeavouring to defy the 
elements which emptied their vials into the brazen 
instruments ; he drifted listlessly about the course 
till the clearing-bell rang, and it seemed as if he was 
searching for some one whom he only wished to dis- 
cover in order to avoid. 

Sandown, it must be admitted, was not as gay as 
usual that day, with its ‘ ‘ deluged park ” and ‘ ‘ unsum- 
mer’d sky, ” its waterproofed toilettes and massed um- 
brellas, whose sides gleamed livid as they caught the 
light — but there was a general determination to ignore 
the unseasonable dampness as far as possible, and an 
excitement over the main event of the day which no 
downpour could quench. 

The Ten Thousand was run : ladies with marvel- 
lously confected bonnets lowered their umbrellas with- 
out a murmur, and smart men on drags shook hands 
effusively as, amidst a frantic roar of delight, Bendigo 
strode past the post. The moment after, I looked 
round for my incongruous stranger, and saw him 
engaged in a well-meant attempt to press a currant 
bun upon a carriage-horse tethered to one of the 
trees — a feat of abstraction which, at such a time, was 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


7 

only surpassed by that of , Archimedes at the sack of 
Syracuse. 

After that I could no longer control my curiosity — 
I felt I must speak to him again, and I made an 
opportunity later, as we stood alone on a, stand which 
commanded the finish of one of the shorter courses, 
by suggesting that he should share my umbrella. 

Before accepting he glanced suspiciously at me 
through the rills that streamed from his unpro- 
tected hat-brim. I’m afraid,” I said, ‘Mt is rather 
like shutting the stable-door after the steed is stolen.’* 

He started. “ He was stolen, then,” he cried ; “so 
you have heard ? ” 

I explained that I had only used an old proverb 
which I thought might appeal to him, and he sighed 
heavily. 

“I was misled for the moment,” he said; “you 
have guessed, then, that I have been accustomed to 
horses .? ” 

“ You have hardly made any great secret of it.” 

“ The fact is,” he said, instantly understanding this 
allusion to his costume, “ I— I put on these things so 
as not to lose the habit of riding altogether— I have 
not been on horseback lately. At one time I used 
to ride constantly— constantly. I was a regular at- 
tendant in Rotten Row— until something occurred 
which shook my nerve, and I am only waiting now 
for the shock to subside.” 

I did not like to ask any questions, and we walked 
back to the station, and travelled up to Waterloo in 
company, without any further reference to the 
subject. 


8 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


As we were parting, however, he said, “I wonder 
if you would care to hear my full story some day ? 
I cannot help thinking it would interest you, and it 
would be a relief to me. ” 

I was ready enough to hear whatever he chose to tell 
me ; and persuaded him to dine with me at my rooms 
that evening, and unbosom himself afterwards, which 
he did to an extent for which I confess I was unpre- 
pared. 

That he himself implicitly believed in his own 
story, I could not doubt ; and he told it throughout 
with the oddest mixture of vanity and modesty, and 
an obvious struggle between a dim perception of his 
own absurdity and the determination to spare himself 
in no single particular, which, though it did not over- 
come my scepticism, could not fail to enlist sympathy. 
But for all that, by the time he entered upon the more 
sensational part of his case, I was driven to form con- 
clusions respecting it which, as they will probably 
force themselves upon the reader’s own mind, I need 
not anticipate here. 

I give the story, as far as possible, in the words 
of its author ; and have only to add that it would never 
have been published here without his full consent and 
approval. 

‘‘My name,” said he, “is Gustavus Pulvertoft. I 
have no occupation, and six hundred a year. I lived 
a quiet and contented bachelor until I was twenty- 
eight, and then I met Diana Chetwynd for the first 
time. We were spending Christmas at the same 
country-house, and it did not take me long to become 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


9 

the most devoted of her many adorers. She was one 
of the most variously accomplished girls I, had ever 
met. She was a skilled musician, a brilliant amateur 
actress ; she could give most men thirty out of . a 
hundred at billiards, and her judgment and, daring 
across the most difficult country had won her the 
warm admiration of all hunting-men. And she was 
neither fast nor horsey, seeming to find but . little 
pleasure in the society of mere sportsmen, to whose 
conversation she infinitely preferred that of persons 
who, like myself, were rather agreeable than athletic, 
r was not at that time, whatever T may be now, with- 
out my share of good looks, and for some reason it 
pleased Miss Chetwynd to show me a degree of favour 
which she accorded to no other member of the house- 
party. 

It was annoying to feel that my unfamjliarity 
with the open-air sports in which she delighted de- 
barred me from her company to so great an extent ; 
for it often happened that I scarcely saw her until the 
evening, when I sometimes had the bliss of sitting 
next to her at dinner; but on these occasions I copld 
not help seeing that she found some pleasure in. my 
society. 

I don’t think I have mentioned that, besides being 
exquisitely lovely, Diana was an heiress, and it was 
not without a sense of my own presumption that I 
allowed myself to entertain the hope of winning her 
at some future day. Still, I was not absolutely pen- 
niless, and she was her own mistress, and I had some 
cause, as I have said, for believing that she was, at 
least, not ill-disposed towards me. It seemed a favouir 


10 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


able sign, for instance, when she asked me one day 
why it was I never rode. I replied that I had not 
ridden for years— though I did not add that the exact 
number of those years was twenty-eight. 

“Oh, but you must take it up again ! she said, 
with the prettiest air of imperiousness. “You ought 
to ride in the Row next season.’’ 

“ If I did,” I said, “ would you let me ride with you 
sometimes ? ” 

^‘We should meet, of course,” she said; “and 
such a pity not to keep up your riding — you lose so 
much by not doing so.” 

Was I wrong in taking this as an intimation that, 
by following her advice, I should not lose my reward ? 
If you had seen her face as she spoke, you would 
have thought as I did then — as I do now. 

And so, with this incentive, I overcame any pri- 
vate misgivings, and soon after my return to town 
attended a fashionable riding-school near Hyde Park, 
with the fixed determination to acquire the whole art 
and mystery of horsemanship. 

That I found learning a pleasure I cannot con- 
scientiously declare. I have passed happier hours 
than those I spent in cantering round four bare white- 
washed walls on a snorting horse, with my inter- 
dicted stirrups crossed upon the saddle. The riding- 
master informed me from time to time that I was 
getting on, and I knew instinctively when I was 
coming off; but I must have made some progress, for 
my instructor became more encouraging. “Why, 
when you come here first, Mr. Pulvertoft, sir, you 
were like a pair o’ tongs on a wall, as they say; 


THE TALKING HORSE. 1 1 

whereas now — well, you can tell yourself how you 
are, ” he would say ; though, even then, I occasionally 
had reason to regret that I was not on a wall. How- 
ever, I persevered, inspired by the thought that each 
fresh horse I crossed (and some were very fresh 
indeed) represented one more barrier surmounted 
between myself and Diana, and encouraged by the 
discovery, after repeated experiments, that tan was 
rather soothing to fall upon than otherwise. 

When I walked in the Row, where a few horsemen 
were performing as harbingers of spring, I criticised 
their riding, which I thought indifferent, as they 
neglected nearly all the rules. I began to antici- 
pate a day when I should exhibit a purer and more 
classic style of equestrianism. And one morning I saw 
Diana, who pulled up her dancing mare to ask me if 
I had remembered her advice, and I felt proudly able 
to reply that I should certainly make my appearance 
in the Row before very long. 

From that day I was perpetually questioning my 
riding-master as to when he considered I should be 
ripe enough for Rotten Row. He was dubious, but 
not actually dissuasive. “ Ifs like this, you see, sir,” 
he explained, ‘ ‘ if you get hold of a quiet, steady horse 
— why, you won’t come to no harm ; but if you go out 
on an animal that will take advantage of you, Mr. 
Pulvertoft, why, you’ll be all no-how on him, sir.” 

They would have mounted me at the school ; but 
I knew most of the stud there, and none of them quite 
came up to my ideal of a “ quiet, steady horse ; ” so I 
went to a neighbouring job-master, from whom I had 
occasionally hired a brougham, and asked to be shown 


12 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


an animal he could recommend to one who had not 
had much practice lately. He admitted candidly 
enough that most of his horses “ took a deal of riding,” 
but added that it so happened that he had one just 
then which would suit me ‘ ‘ down to the ground ” — a 
phrase which grated unpleasantly on my nerves, 
though I consented to see the horse. His aspect 
impressed me most favourably. He was a chestnut 
of noble proportions, with a hogged mane ; but what 
reassured me was the expression of his eye, indicating 
as it did a self-respect and sagacity which one would 
hardly expect for seven and sixpence an hour. 

“You won’t get a showier Park ’ack than what he 
is, not to be so quiet,” said his owner. “ He’s what 
you may call a kind ’oss, and as gentle — you could 
ride him on a packthread. ” 

I considered reins safer, but I was powerfully 
drawn towards the horse : he seemed to me to be sen- 
sible that he had a character to lose, and to possess 
too high an intelligence wilfully to forfeit his testi- 
monials. With hardly a second thought, I engaged 
him for the following afternoon. 

I mounted at the stables, with just a passing qualm, 
perhaps, while my stirrup-leathers were being ad- 
justed, and a little awkwardness in taking up my 
reins, which were more twisted than I could have 
wished ; however, at length, I found myself embarked 
on the stream of traffic on the back of the chestnut — 
whose name, by the way, was Brutus. 

Shall I ever forget the pride and ecstasy of finding 
that I had my steed under perfect control, that we 
threaded the maze of carriages with absolute security ? 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


13 

I turned him into the Park, and clucked my tongue : 
he broke into a canter, and how shall I describe my 
delight at the discovery that it was not uncomfor- 
table? I said “ Woa,’' and he stopped, so gradually 
that my equilibrium was not seriously disturbed ; he 
trotted, and still I accommodated myself to his move* 
ments without any positive inconvenience. I could 
have embraced him for gratitude : never before had 
I been upon a beast whose paces were so easy, whose 
behaviour was so considerate. I could , ride at last I 
or, which amounted to the same thing, I could ride 
the horse I was on, and I would “ use no other.” I 
was about to meet Diana Chetwynd, and need not 
fear even to encounter her critical eyes. 

We had crossed the Serpentine bridge, and were 
just turning in upon the Ride, when — and here I am 
only too conscious that what I am about to say may 
strike you as almost incredible — when I heard an 
unfamiliar voice addressing me with, “ I say — you ! ” 
and the moment afterwards realised that it proceeded 
from my own horse ! 

I am not ashamed to own that I was as nearly off 
as possible ; for a more practised rider than I could 
pretend to be might have a difficulty in preserving his 
equanimity in this all but unparalleled situation. I 
was too much engaged in feeling for my left stirrup to 
make any reply, and presently the horse spoke once 
more. “I say,” he inquired, and I failed to discern 
the slightest trace of respect in his tone — “do you 
think you can ride?” You can judge for yourself 
how disconcerting the inquiry must have been from 
such lips ; I felt rooted to the saddle— a sensation 


H 


THE TALKING MORSE, 


which, with me, was sufficiently rare. I looked round 
in helpless bewilderment at the shimmering Serpen- 
tine, and the white houses in Park Lane gleaming out 
of a lilac haze, at the cocoa-coloured Row, and the 
flash of distant carriage-wheels in the sunlight : all 
looked as usual^and yet, there was I on the back of 
a horse which had just inquired “ whether I thought 
I could ride ! ” 

“ I have had two dozen lessons at a riding-school,” 
I said at last, with rather a flabby dignity. 

“I should hardly have suspected it,” was his bru- 
tal retort. “You are evidently one of the hopeless 
cases. ” 

I was deeply hurt, the more so because I could not 
deny that he had some claim to be a judge. “I — I 
thought we were getting on so nicely together, ” I fal- 
tered, and all he said in reply to that was, Did 
you } ” 

“Do you know,'’ I began, striving to be conversa- 
tional, ‘ ‘ I never was on a horse that talked before ? ” 

“You are enough to make any horse talk,” he 
answered ; “but I suppose I am an exception.” 

“ I think you must be,” said I. “The only horses 
I ever heard of as possessing the gift of speech were 
the Houyhnhnms.” 

“How do you know I am not one of them? ” he 
replied. 

“If you are, you will understand that I took the 
liberty of mounting you under a very pardonable 
mistake ; and if you will have the goodness to stand 
still, I will no longer detain you.” 

“Not so fast,” said he : “I want to know some- 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


15 

thing more about you first. I should say now you 
were a man with plenty of oats.” 

I am — well off,” I said. How I wished I was ! 

“I have long been looking out for a proprietor 
who would not overwork me : now, of course, I don’t 
know, but you scarcely strike me as a hard rider.” 

“I do not think I could be fairly accused of that,” 
I answered, with all the consciousness of innocence. 

“Just so — then buy me.” 

“No,” I gasped: “after the extremely candid 
opinion you were good enough to express of my 
riding. I’m surprised that you should even suggest 
such a thing.” 

“Oh, I will put up with that — you will suit me 
well enough, I dare say.” 

“You must excuse me. I prefer to keep my spare 
cash for worthier objects ; and, with your permission, 
I will spend the remainder of the afternoon on foot.” 

“You will do nothing of the sort,” said he. 

“If you won’t stop, and let me get off properly,” 
I said with firmness, “I shall rolloff/' There were 
some promenaders within easy hail ; but how was I 
to word a call for help, how explain such a dilemma 
as mine ? 

“You will only reduce me to the painful necessity 
of rolling on you,” he replied. “You must see that 
you are to a certain extent in my power. Suppose it 
occurred to me to leap those rails and take you into 
the Serpentine, or to run away and upset a mounted 
policeman with you — do you think you could offer 
much opposition ? ” 

I could not honestly assert that I did. “You 


1 6 the talking horse. 

were introduced to me/' I said reproachfully, ‘‘as a 
kind horse ! ” 

“And so I am — apart from matters of business. 
Come, will you buy, or be bolted with ? I hate in- 
decision !” 

“ Buy ! ” I said, with commercial promptness. “If 
you will take me back, I will arrange about it at 
once. ” 

It is needless to say that my one idea was to get 
safely off his back : after which, neither honour nor 
law could require me to execute a contract extorted 
from me by threats. But as we were going down 
the mews, he said reflectively, “ IVe been thinking 
— it will be better for all parties, if you make your 
offer to my proprietor before you dismount.” I was 
too vexed to speak : this animal's infernal intelligence 
had foreseen my manoeuvre — he meant to foil it, if he 
could. 

And then we clattered in under the glass-roofed 
yard of the livery stables ; and the job-master, who 
was alone there, cast his eyes up at the sickly-faced 
clock, as if he were comparing its pallor with my own. 
“Why, you are home early, sir,” he said. “You 
didn't find the 'orse too much for you, did you ? ” He 
said this without any suspicion of the real truth ; and, 
indeed, I may say, once for all, that this weird horse 
— Houyhnhnm, or whatever else he might be — ad- 
mitted no one but myself into the secret of his mar- 
vellous gifts, and in all his conversations with me 
managed (though how, I cannot pretend to say) to 
avoid being overheard. 

“ Oh, dear, no,” I protested, “he carried me admi- 


THE TALKING HORSE, tj 

rably — admirably I ” and I made an attempt to slip 
off. 

No such thing : Brutus instantly jogged my mem- 
ory, and me, by the slightest suggestion of a “ buck. 

“He’s a grand ’orse, sir, isn’t he?” said the job- 
master complacently. 

“M — magnificent! ” I agreed, with a jerk. “Will 
you go to his head, please ? ” 

But the horse backed into the centre of the yard, 
where he plunged with a quiet obstinacy. “ I like 
him so much, ” I called out, as I clung to the saddle, 

‘ ‘ that I want to know if you’re at all inclined to part 
with him ? ” Here Brutus became calm and attentive. 

“Would you be inclined to make me a orfer for 
him, sir?” 

“Yes,” I said faintly. “About how much would 
he be ? ” 

“You step into my orfice here, sir,” said he, “ and 
we’ll talk it over. ” 

I should have been only too willing, for there was 
no room there for the horse, but the suspicious 
animal would not hear of it : he began to revolve 
immediately. 

“Let us settle it now — here,” I said, “I can’t 
wait.” 

The job-master stroked away a grin. No doubt 
there was something unbusinesslike and unpractical 
in such precipitation, especially as combined with 
my appearance at the time. 

“Well, you 'ave took a violent fancy to the ’orse 
and no mistake, sir,” he remarked. 

“I never crossed a handsomer creature,” I said; 


^8 THE TALKING HORSE, 

which was hardly a prudent remark for an intending 
purchaser, but then, there was the animal himself to 
be conciliated. 

“I don't know, really, as I can do without him 
just at this time of year,’' said the man. “I’m under- 
’orsed as it is for the work I’ve got to do.” 

A sweet relief stole over me : I had done all that 
could be expected of me. “I’m very sorry to hear 
that,” I said, preparing to dismount. “That 75 a dis- 
appointment ; but if you can’t there’s an end of it. ” 

“Don’t you be afraid,” said Brutus, “ hell sell me 
readily enough : make him an offer, quick ! ” 

“I’ll give you thirty guineas for him, come!” I 
said, knowing well enough that he would not take 
twice the money. 

‘ ‘ I thought a gentleman like you would have had 
more insight into the value of a *orse,” he said ; 
“why, his action alone is worth that, sir.” 

“You couldn’t let me have the action without the 
horse, I suppose ? ” I said, and I must have intended 
some joke. 

It is unnecessary to prolong a painful scene. 
Brutus ran me up steadily from sum to sum, until 
his owner said at last : “Well, we won’t 'aggie, sir, 
call it a hundred. ” 

I had to call it a hundred, and what is more, it 
was a hundred. I took him without a warranty, with- 
out even a veterinary opinion. I could have been 
induced to take my purchase away then and there, 
as if I had been buying a canary, so unaccustomed 
was I to transactions of this kind, and I am afraid the 
job-master considered me little better than a fool. 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


19 


So I found myself the involuntary possessor of a 
Houyhnhnm, or something even worse, and I walked 
back to my rooms in Park Street in a state of stupor. 
What was I to do with him? To ride an animal so 
brutally plain-spoken would be a continual penance ; 
and yet, I should have to keep him, for I knew he 
was cunning enough to outwit any attempt to dispose 
of him. And to this. Love and Ambition had led 
me ! I could not, after all I had said, approach 
Diana with any confidence as a mere pedestrian : the 
fact that I was in possession of a healthy horse which 
I never rode would be sure to leak out in time, and 
how was I to account for it ? I could see no way, 
and I groaned under an embarrassment which I 
dared not 'confide to the friendliest ear. I hated the 
monster that had saddled himself upon me, and 
looked in vain for any mode of escape. 

I had to provide Brutus with stabling in another 
part of the town, for he proved exceedingly difficult 
to please : he found fault with everything, and I only 
wonder he did not demand that his stable should be 
fitted up with blue china and mezzotints. In his new 
quarters I left him for some days to his own devices : 
a course I was glad to find, on visiting him again, 
had considerably reduced his arrogance. He wanted 
to go in the Row and see the other horses, and it did 
not at all meet his views to be exercised there by a 
stableman at unfashionable hours. So he proposed a 
compromise. If I would only consent to mount him, 
he engaged to treat me with forbearance, and pointed 
out that he could give me, as he expressed it, various 
‘‘tips" which would improve my seat.'^ I was not 


20 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


blind to the advantages of such an arrangement. It 
is not every one who secures a riding-master in the 
person of his own horse ; the horse is essentially a 
generous animal, and I felt that I might trust to Bru- 
tus’s honour. And to do him justice, he observed 
the compact with strict good faith. Some of his 
‘‘tips,” it is very true, very nearly tipped me off, but 
their result was to bring us closer together ; our rela- 
tions were less strained; it seemed to me that I 
gained more mastery over him every day, and was 
less stiff afterwards. 

But I was not allowed to enjoy this illusion long. 
One day when I innocently asked him if he found 
my hands improving, he turned upon me his off 
sardonic eye. “You’ll never improve, old sack-of- 
beans ” (for he had come to address me with a free- 
dom I burned to resent) ; “hands ! why you’re saw- 
ing my mouth off all the time. And your feet ‘ home, ’ 

and tickling me under my shoulders at every stride 

why, I’m half ashamed to be seen about with you.” 

I was deeply hurt. “I will spare you for the 
future,” I said coldly ; “this is my last appearance.” 

“Nonsense, he said, “you needn’t show temper 
over it. Surely, if I can put up with %you can ! 
But we will make a new compact.” (I never knew 
such a beast as he was for bargains ! ) “ You only 

worry me by interfering with the reins. Let ’em out, 
and leave everything to me. Just mention from 
time to time where you want to go, and I’ll attend to 
it — if I’ve nothing better to do.” 

I felt that such an understanding was destructive 
of all dignity, subverting, as it did, the natural rela- 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


21 


tions between horse and rider ; but I had hardly any 
self-respect left, and I consented, since I saw no way 
of refusing. And on the whole, I cannot say, even 
now, that I had any grave reason for finding fault 
with the use Brutus made of my concessions ; he 
showed more tact than I could have expected in dis- 
guising the merely nominal nature of my authority. 

I had only one serious complaint against him, 
which was that he had a habit of breaking suddenly 
away, with a merely formal apology, to exchange 
equine civilities with some cob or mare, to whose 
owner I was a perfect stranger, thus driving me to in- 
vent the most desperate excuses to cover my seem- 
ing intrusion ; but I managed to account for it in 
various ways, and even made a few acquaintances 
in this irregular and involuntary manner. I could 
have wished he had been a less susceptible animal, 
for, though his flirtations were merely Platonic, it is 
rather humilating to have to play “gooseberry’' to 
one’s own horse — a part which I was being constantly 
called upon to perforin ! 

As it happened, Diana was away in Paris that 
Easter, and we had not met since my appearance in 
the Row; but I knew she would be in town again 
shortly, and with consummate diplomacy I began to 
excite Brutus’s curiosity by sundry careless, half- 
slighting allusions to Miss Chetwynd’s little mare. 
Wild Rose. “ She’s too frisky for my taste,” I said, 
“but she’s been a good deal admired, though I dare 
say you wouldn’t be particularly struck by her.” 

So that, on the first afternoon of Diana’s return to 
the Row, I found it easy, under cover of giving Bru- 


22 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


tus an opportunity of forming an opinion, to prevail 
on him to carry me to her side. Diana, who was 
with a certain Lady Verney, her chaperon, welcomed 
me with a charming smile. 

“I had no idea you could ride so well,” she said, 
“you manage that beautiful horse of yours so very 
easily — with such light hands, too. ” 

This was not irony, for I could now give my whole 
mind to my seat ; and, as I never interfered at all 
with the steering apparatus, my hands must have 
seemed the perfection of lightness. 

“ He wants delicate handling,” I answered, care- 
lessly, “but he goes very well with 

“I wish you would let me try his paces some 
morning, Pulvertoft,” struck in a Colonel Cockshott, 
who was riding with them, and whom I knew 
slightly ; “ Tve a notion he would go better on the 
curb.” 

“I shall be very happy,” I began, when, just in 
time, I noticed a warning depression in Brutus’s ears. 
The Colonel rode about sixteen stone, and with spurs ! 
“I mean,” I added hastily, “I should have been 
— only to tell you the truth, I couldn’t conscientiously 
trust any one on him but myself.” 

“My dear fellow!” said the Colonel, who I could 
see was offended, “I’ve not met many horses in my 
time that I couldn’t get upon terms with.” 

“I think Mr. Pulvertoft is quite right,” said Diana. 
“When a horse gets accustomed to one he does so 
resent a strange hand ; it spoils his temper for days. 
I never will lend Wild Rose to anybody for that very 
reason I ” 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


n 

The Colonel fell back in the rear in a decided sulk. 

“ Poor dear Colonel Cockshott ! ” said Diana, “ he is 
so proud of his riding, but I think he dragoons a 
horse. I don't call that riding, do you ? ” 

“Well — hardly," I agreed, with easy disparage- 
ment. “ I never believe in ruling a horse by fear." 

“I suppose you are very fond of yours.?" she said. 

“ Fond is not the word ! " I exclaimed — and it cer- 
tainly was not. 

‘ ‘ I am not sure that what I said about lending Wild 
Rose would apply \.o you” she said. “I think you 
would be gentle with her." 

I was certain that I should treat her with all con- 
sideration ; but as I doubted whether she would 
wholly reciprocate it, I said, with much presence of 
mind, that I should regard riding her as akin to 
profanation. 

As Brutus and I were going home, he observed that 
it was a good thing I had not agreed to lend him to 
the Colonel. 

“Yes," I said, determined to improve the occasion, 
“ you might not have found him as considerate as — 
well, as some people ! " 

^ ' I meant it was a good thing for you ! " he hinted 
darkly, and I did not care to ask for an explanation. 
“ What did you mean," he resumed, “ by saying that 
I should not admire Wild Rose ? Why, she is charm- 
ing — charming ! " . 

“ In that case," I said, “ I don’t mind riding with 
her mistress occasionally — to oblige you. " 

“You don’t mind!" he said; “you will have to, 
my boy, — and every afternoon 1 " 


24 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


I suppressed a chuckle : after all, man is the nobler 
animal. I could manage a horse — in my own way. 
My little ruse had succeeded : I should have no more 
forced introductions to mystified strangers. 

And now for some weeks my life passed in a happy 
dream. I only lived for those hours in the Row, 
where Brutus turned as naturally to Wild Rose as the 
sunflower to the sun, and Diana and I grew more 
intimate every day. Happiness and security made 
me almost v/itty. I was merciless in my raillery of 
the eccentric exhibitions of horsemanship which were 
to be met with, and Diana was provoked by my 
comments to the sweetest silvery laughter. As for 
Colonel Cockshott, whom I had once suspected of a 
desire to be my rival, he had long become a “neg- 
ligible quantity ; and if I delayed in asking Diana to 
trust me with her sweet self, it was only because I 
found an epicurean pleasure in prolonging a suspense 
that was so little uncertain. 

And then, without warning, my riding was inter- 
rupted for a while. Brutus was discovered, much to 
his annoyance, to have a saddle-raw, and was even so 
unjust as to lay the blame on me, though, for my 
own part, I thought it a mark of apt, though tardy, 
retribution. I was not disposed to tempt Fortune 
upon any other mount, but I could not keep away 
from the Row, nevertheless, and appeared there on 
foot. I saw Diana riding with the Colonel, who 
seemed to think his opportunity had come at last ; 
but whenever she passed the railings on which I 
leaned, she would raise her eyebrows and draw her 
mouth down into a little curve of resigned boredom, 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


25 

which completely reassured me. Still, I was very 
glad when Brutus was well again, and we were can- 
tering down the Row once more, both in the highest 
spirits. . . - 

“I never heard the horses here whinny so much as 
they do this season,” I said, by way of making con- 
versation. “ Can you account for it at all ” For he 
sometimes gave me pieces of information which en- 
abled me to impress Diana afterwards by my intimate 
knowledge of horses. 

‘ ‘ Whinnying .? ” he said. ‘ ' They’re laughing, that’s 
what they’re doing-^and no wonder ! ” 

“ Oh ! ” said I, “and what s the joke ? ” 

“Why, you are ! ” he replied. ‘ ‘ You don’t suppose 
you take them in, do you ? They know all about you, 
bless your heart ! ” 

“Oh, do they? ” I said blankly. This brute took 
a positive pleasure, I believe, in reducing my self- 
esteem. 

“I dare saylt has got about through Wild Rose,” 
he continued. “ She was immensely tickled when I 
told her. I’m afraid she must have been feeling 
rather dull all these days, by the bye. ” 

I felt an unworthy impulse to take his conceit down 
as he had lowered mine. 

“Not so very, I think,” I said. “She seemed to 
me to find that brown hunter of Colonel Cockshott’s 
a very agreeable substitute.” 

Late as it is for reparation, I must acknowledge 
with shame that in uttering this insinuation, I did that 
poor little mare (for whom I entertained the highest 
respect) a shameful injustice ; and I should like to 


26 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


state here, in the most solemn and emphatic manner, 
my sincere belief that, from first to last, she conducted 
herself in a manner that should have shielded her 
from all calumny. 

It was only a mean desire to retaliate, a petty and 
ignoble spite, that prompted me thus to poison 
Brutus’s confidence, and I regretted the words as soon 
as I had uttered them. 

“That beast ! ” he said, starting as if I had touched 
him with a whip — a thing I never used — “why, he 
hasn’t two ideas in his great fiddle-head. The only 
sort of officer he ought to carry is a Salvationist ! " 

“I grant he has not your personal advantages and 
charm of manner, ” I said. ‘ ‘ No doubt I was wrong 
to say anything about it.” 

“No,” he said, “you — you have done me a ser- 
vice,” and he relapsed into a sombre silence. 

I was riding with Diana as usual, and was about 
to express my delight at being able- to resume our 
companionship, when her mare drew slightly ahead 
and lashed out suddenly, catching me on the left leg, 
and causing intense agony for the moment. 

Diana showed the sweetest concern, imploring me 
to go home in a cab at once, while her groom took 
charge of Brutus. I declined the cab ; but, as my 
leg was really painful, and Brutus was showing an 
impatience I dared not disregard, I had to leave 
her side. 

On our way home, Brutus said moodily, “It is all 
over between us — you saw that .? ” 

“ I felt it ! ” I replied. “ She nearly broke my leg.” 

“It was intended for me,” he said. “It was her 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


27 


way of signifying that we had better be strangers for 
the future. I taxed her with her faithlessness ; she 
denied it, of course — every mare does ; we had an 
explanation, and everything is at an end ! ” 

I did not ride him again for some days, and when 
I did, I found him steeped in Byronic gloom. He 
even wanted at first to keep entirely on the Bayswater 
side of the Park, though I succeeded in arguing him 
out of such weakness. “ Be a horse ! ’’ I said. ‘ ‘ Show 
her you don’t care. You only flatter her by betray- 
ing your feelings.” 

This was a subtlety that had evidently not oc- 
curred to him, but he was intelligent enough to feel 
the force of what I said. ‘ ‘ You are right, ” he admitted ; 
“ you are not quite a fool in some respects. She shall 
see how little I care ! ” 

Naturally, after this, I expected to accompany 
Diana as usual, and it was a bitter disappointment to 
me to find that Brutus would not hear of doing so. 
He had an old acquaintance in the Park, a dapple- 
grey, who, probably from some early disappointment 
was a confirmed cynic, and whose society he thought 
would be congenial just then. The grey was ridden 
regularly by a certain Miss Gittens, whose appearance 
as she titupped laboriously up and down had often 
furnished Diana and myself with amusement, 

And now, in spite of all my efforts, Brutus made 
straight to the grey. I was not in such difficulties as 
might have been expected, for I happened to know 
Miss Gittens slightly, as a lady no longer in the 
bloom of youth, who still retained a wiry form of 
girlishness. Though rather disliking her than not, I 


28 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


found it necessary just then to throw some slight effu- 
sion into my greeting. She, not unnaturally perhaps, 
was flattered by my preference, and begged me to 
give her a little instruction in riding, which — Heaven 
forgive me for it ! — I took upon myself to do. 

Even now I scarcely see how I could have acted 
otherwise : I could not leave her side until Brutus 
had exhausted the pleasures of cynicism with his grey 
friend, and the time had to be filled up somehow. 
But, oh, the torture of seeing Diana at a distance, 
and knowing that only a miserable misunderstanding 
between our respective steeds kept us apart, feeling 
constrained even to avoid looking in her direction, 
lest she should summon me to her side ! 

One day, as I was riding with Miss Gittens, she 
glanced coyly at me over her sharp right shoulder, 
and said, ‘‘Do you know, only such a little while ago, 
I never even dreamed that we should ever become 
as intimate as we are now ; it seems almost incredi- 
ble, does it not ? ” 

“You must not say so,” I replied. “Surely there 
is nothing singular in my helping you a little with 
your riding.?” Though it struck me that it would 
have been very singular if I had. 

“Perhaps not singular,” she murmured, looking 
modestly down her nose ; “but will you think me very 
unmaidenly if I confess that, to me, those lessons 
have developed a dawning danger ? ” 

“ You are perfectly safe on the grey,” I said. 

“I — I was not thinking of the grey,” she returned. 
“Dear Mr. Pulvertoft, I must speak frankly — a girl 
has so many things to consider, and I am afraid you 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


29 

have made me forget how wrongly and thoughtlessly 
I have been behaving of late. I cannot help suspect- 
ing that you must have some motive in seeking my 
society in so— so marked a manner.” 

“ Miss Gittens, ” said I, “I can disguise nothing. 
I have.” 

‘ ^ And you have not been merely amusing yourself 
all this time ? ” 

“Before Heaven,” I cried with fervour, “I have 

“You are not one of those false men who give 
their bridle reins a shake, and ride off with ‘ Adieu 
for evermore ! ’ — tell me you are not ? ” 

I might shake my bridle-reins till I was tired and 
nothing would come of it unless Brutus was in the 
humour to depart ; so that I was able to assure her 
with truth that I was not at all that kind of person. 

“Then why not let your heart speak ? ” 

“There is such a thing,” I said gloomily, “ as a 
heart that is gagged.” 

‘ ‘ Can no word, no hint of mine loosen the gag ? ” 
she wished to know. “What, you are silent still? 
Then, Mr, Pulvertoft, though I may seem harsh and 
cruel in saying it, our pleasant intercourse must end 
— we must ride together no more ! ” 

No more ? What would Brutus say to that ? I 
was horrified. ‘ ‘ Miss Gittens, ” I said in great agita- 
tion, “ I entreat you to unsay those words. I— I am 
afraid I could not undertake to accept such a dismissal. 
Surely, after that, you will not insist ! ” 

She sighed. “I am a weak, foolish girl,” she 
said ; “you are only too able to overcome my judg- 


30 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


ment. There, Mr. Pulvertoft, look happy again — 
I relent. You may stay if you will ! ” 

You must believe that I felt thoroughly ashamed of 
myself, for I could not be blind to the encouragement 
which, though I sought to confine my words to strict 
truth, I was innocently affording. But, with a horse 
like mine, what was a man to do ? What would you 
have done yourself? As soon as was prudent, I 
hinted to Brutus that his confidences had lasted long 
enough ; and as he trotted away with me, he remarked, 

‘ ‘ I thought you were never going. Was he weary 
of the grey already ? My heart leaped. “Brutus,'' I 
said thickly, “ are you strong enough to bear a great 
joy? ” 

“Speak out," he said, “ and do try to keep those 
heels out of my ribs. " 

“ I cannot see you suffer," I told him with a sense 
of my own hypocrisy all the time. “I must tell you 
— circumstances have come to my knowledge which 
lead me to believe that we have both judged Wild 
Rose too hastily. I am sure that her heart is yours 
still. She is only longing to tell you that she has 
never really swerved from her allegiance." 

“It is too late now," he said, and the back of his 
head looked inflexibly obstinate; “we have kept 
asunder too long." 

“No," I said, “ listen. I take more interest in you 
than you are, perhaps, aware of, and I have thought 
of a little plan for bringing you together again. What 
if I find an opportunity to see the lady she belongs to 
— we have not met lately, as you know, and I do not 
pretend that I desire a renewal of our intimacy " 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


31 

** You like the one on the grey best ; I saw that 
long ago,” he said; and I left him in his error. 

“ In any case^ for your sake, I will sacrifice myself,” 
I said magnanimously. ‘ ‘ I will begin to-morrow. 
Come, you will not let your lives be wrecked by a 
foolish lovers’ quarrel ? ” 

He made a little half-hearted opposition, but finally, 
as I knew he would, consented. I had gained my 
point : I was free from Miss Gittens at last I 

That evening I met Diana in the hall of a house in 
Eaton Square. She was going downstairs as I was 
making my way to the ball-room, and greeted me 
with a rather cool little nod. 

“You have quite deserted me lately,” she said, 
smiling, but I could read the reproach in her eyes, 
“you never ride with us now.” 

My throat was swelling with passionate eloquence 
— and I could not get any of it out. 

“ No, I never do,” was all my stupid tongue could 
find to say. 

“You have discovered a more congenial compan- 
ion,” said cruel Diana. 

“ Miss Chetwynd,” I said eagerly, “ you don’t know 
how I have been wishing—! Will you let me ride 
with you to-morrow, as — as you used to do ? ” 

“You are quite sure you won’t be afraid of my 
naughty Wild Rose ? ” she said. “ I have given her 
such a scolding, that I think she is thoroughly 
ashamed of herself.” 

“You thought it was that that kept me 1 ” I cried. 
“ Oh, if I could tell you ! ” 

She smiled : she was my dear, friendly Diana again. 


32 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


*‘You shall tell me all about it to-morrow,” she 
said. ‘‘You will not have another opportunity, 
because we are going to Aix on Friday. And now, 
good-night. I am stopping the way, and the link- 
man is getting quite excited over it.” 

She passed on and the carriage rolled away with 
her, and I was too happy to mind very much — had 
she not forgiven me ? Should we not meet to- 
morrow ? i should have two whole hours to declare 
myself in, and this ^ time I would dally with Fortune 
no longer. 

How excited I was the following day : how fearful, 
when the morning broke grey and lowering : how 
grateful, when the benignant sun shone out later, 
and promised a brilliant afternoon : how carefully I 
dressed, and what a price I paid for the flower for my 
buttonhole ! 

So we cantered on to the Row, as goodly a couple 
(if I may be pardoned this retrospective vanity) as 
any there ; and by and by, I saw, with the quick eye 
of a lover, Diana's willowy form in the distance. She 
was not alone, but I knew that the Colonel would 
soon have to yield his place to me. 

As soon as she saw me, she urged her mare to a 
trot, and came towards me with the loveliest faint 
blush and dawning smile of welcome, when, all at 
once, Brutus came to a dead stop, which nearly 
threw me on his neck, and stood quivering in every 
limb. 

“Do you see that?” he said hoarsely. “And I 
was about to forgive her ! ” 

I saw : my insinuation, baseless enough at the 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


33 

beginning, was now but too well justified. Colonel 
Cockshott was on his raw-boned brown hunter, and 
even my brief acquaintance with horses enabled me 
to see that Wild Rose no longer regarded him with her 
former indifference. 

Diana and the Colonel had reined up and seemed 
waiting for me — would Brutus never move ? “Show 
your pride,” I said in an agonised whisper. “Treat 
her with the contempt she deserves ! ” 

' “I will,'' he said between his bit and clinched 
teeth. 

And then Miss Gittens came bumping by on the 
grey, and, before I could interfere, my Houyhnhnm 
was off like a shot in pursuit. I saw Diana's sweet, 
surprised face : I heard the Colonel's jarring laugh as 
I passed, and I — I could only bow in mortified appeal, 
and long for a gulf to leap into like Curtius ! 

I don't know what I said to Miss Gittens. I believe 
I made myself recklessly amiable, and I remember 
she lingered over parting in a horribly emotional man- 
ner. I was too miserable to mind : all the time I was 
seeing Diana's astonished eyes, hearing Colonel Cock- 
shotfs heartless laugh. Brutus made a kind of expla- 
nation on our way home : “You meant well," he said, 
“but you see you were wrong. Your proposed sacri- 
fice, for which I am just as grateful to you as if it had 
been effected, was useless. All I could do in return 
was to take you where your true inclination lay. I, 
too, can be unselfish." 

I was too dejected to curse his unselfishnesss. I 
did not even trouble myself to explain what it had 
probably cost me. I only felt drearily that I had had 
3 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


34 

my last ride, I had had enough of horsemanship for 
ever ! 

That evening I went to the theatre, I wanted to 
deaden thought for the moment ; and during one of 
the intervals I saw Lady Verney in the stalls, and 
went up to speak to her. ‘‘Your niece is not with 
you ? I said ; “I thought I should have had a chance 
of — of saying good-bye to her before she left for the 
continent. 

I had a lingering hope that she might ask me to 
lunch, that I might have one more opportunity of ex- 
plaining. 

“ Oh,” said Lady Verney, “but that is all changed ; 
we are not going — at least, not yet.” 

“Not going ! ” I cried, incredulous for very joy. 

“No, it is all very sudden; but — well, you are 
almost like an old friend, and you are sure to hear it 
sooner or later. I only knew myself this afternoon, 
when she came in from her ride. Colonel Cockshott 
has proposed and she has accepted him. We’re so 

pleased about it. Wasn’t dear Mrs. delightful in 

that last act? I positively saw real tears on her 
face ! ” 

If I had waited much longer she would have seen 
a similar display of realism on mine. But I went 
back and sat the interval out, and listened critically 
to the classical selection of chamber-music from the 
orchestra, and saw the rest of the play, though I have 
no notion how it ended. 

All that night my heart was slowly consumed by 
a dull rage that grew with every sleepless hour ; but 
the object of my resentment was not Diana. She had 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


35 

only done what as a woman she was amply justified 
in doing after the pointed slight I had apparently 
inflicted upon her. Her punishment was sufficient 
already, for, of course, I guessed that she had only 
accepted the Colonel under the first intolerable sting 
of desertion. No : I reserved all my wrath for Brutus, 
who had betrayed me at the moment of triumph. I 
planned revenge. Cost what it might I would ride 
him once more. In the eyes of the law I was his 
master. I would exercise my legal rights to the 
full. 

The afternoon came at last. I was in a white 
heat of anger, though as I ascended to the saddle 
there were bystanders who put a more uncharitable 
construction upon my complexion. 

Brutus cast an uneasy eye at my heels as we 
started : ' “ What are those things you’ve got on ? ” he 
inquired. 

“Spurs,” I replied curtly. 

“You shouldn’t wear them till you have learnt to 
turn your toes in,” he said. “And a whip, too ! May 
I ask what that is for? ” 

“We will discuss that presently, ” I said very coldly; 
for I did not want to have a scene with my horse in 
the street. 

When we came round by the statue of Achilles, 
and on to the Ride, I shortened my reins, and got a 
better hold of the whip, while I found that, from some 
cause I cannot explain, the roof of my mouth grew 
uncomfortably dry. 

“I should be glad of a little quiet talk with you, if 
you’ve no objection,” I began. 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


36 

“ Tm quite at your disposal,” he said, champing 
his bit with a touch of irony. 

“ First, let me tell you,” I said, “that I have lost 
my only love for ever. ” 

“ Well,” he retorted flippantly, “ you won't die of it. 
So have I. We must endeavour to console one an- 
other ! ” 

I still maintained a deadly calm. “You seem 
unaware that you are the sole cause of my calamity, ” 
I said. “ Had you only consented to face Wild Rose 
yesterday, I should have been a happy man by this 
time ! ” 

“ How was I to know that, when you let me think 
all your affections were given to the elderly thing 
who is trotted out by my friend the grey ? ” 

“We won't argue, please,” I said hastily. “It is 
enough that your infernal egotism and self-will have 
ruined my happiness. I have allowed you to usurp 
the rule, to reverse our natural positions. I shall do 
so no more. I intend to teach you a lesson you will 
never forget.” 

For a horse, he certainly had a keen sense of hu- 
mour. I thought the girths would have snapped. 

“And when do you intend to begin.?” he asked, as 
soon as he could speak. 

I looked in front of me : there were Diana and her 
accepted lover riding towards us ; and so natural is 
dissimulation, even to the sweetest and best women, 
that no one would have suspected from her radiant 
face that her gaiety covered an aching heart. 

“I intend to begin now,’' I said. “Monster, 
demon, whatever you are that have held me in thrall 


THE TALKING HORSE. 


37 

SO long, I have broken my chains ! I have been a 
coward long enough. You may kill me if you like. 
I rather hope you will ; but first I mean to pay you 
back some of the humiliation with which you have 
loaded me. I intend to thrash you as long as I 
remain in the saddle.’’ 

I have been told by eye-witnesses that the chas- 
tisement was of brief duration, but while it lasted, I 
flatter myself, it was severe. I laid into him with a 
stout whip, of whose effectiveness I had assured my- 
self, by experiments upon my own legs. I dug my 
borrowed spurs into his flanks. I jerked his mouth. 
I dare say he was almost as much surprised as pained. 
But he was pained ! 

I was about to continue my practical rebuke, when 
my victim suddenly evaded my grasp ; and for one 
vivid second I seemed to be gazing upon a birdseye 
view of his back ; and then there was a crash, and I 
lay, buzzing like a bee, in an iridescent fog, and each 
colour meant a different pain, and they faded at last 
into darkness, and I remember no more. 

‘‘ It was weeks,” concluded Mr. Pulvertoft, before 
that darkness lifted and revealed me to myself as a 
strapped and bandaged invalid. But — and this is per- 
haps the most curious part of my narrative — almost 
the first sounds that reached my ears were those of 
wedding bells ; and I knew, without requiring to be 
told, that they were ringing for Diana’s marriage with 
the Colonel. That showed there wasn’t much the 
matter with me, didn’t it? Why, I can hear them 
everywhere now. I don’t think she ought to have 
had them rung at Sandown though : it was just a 


THE TALKING HORSE, 


38 

little ostentatious, so long after the ceremony ; don’t 
you think so ? ” 

“ Yes — yes,” I said ; “ but you never told me what 
became of the horse.” 

“Ah! the horse — yes. I am looking for him. 
I’m not so angry with him as I was, and I don’t like 
to ask too many questions at the stables, for fear they 
may tell me one day that they had to shoot him while 
I was so ill. You knew I was ill, I dare say?” he 
broke off ; ‘ ‘ there were bulletins about me in the 
papers. Look here.” 

He handed me a cutting on which I read ; 

“The Recent Accident in Rotten Row. — There 
is no change as yet in Mr. Pulvertoft’s condition. 
The unfortunate gentleman is still lying unconscious 
at his rooms in Park Street ; and his medical attend- 
ants fear that, even if he recovers his physical 
strength, the brain will be permanently injured.” 

“ But that was all nonsense 1 ” said Mr. Pulvertoft, 
with a little nervous laugh, “ it wasn’t injured a bit, 
or how could I remember everything so clearly as I 
do, you know ? ” 

And this was an argument that was, of course, 
unanswerable. 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


A STORY FOR CHILDREN. 

Her name was Priscilla Prodgers, and she was a very 
good little girl indeed. So good was she, in fact, that 
she could not help being aware of it herself, and that 
is a stage to which very many quite excellent persons 
never succeed in attaining. She was only just a child 
it is true, but she had read a great many beautiful 
story-books, and so she knew what a powerful re- 
forming influence a childish and innocent remark, or 
a youthful example, or a happy combination of both, 
can exert over grown-up people. And early in life 
— she was but eleven at the date of this history — 
early in life she had seen clearly that her mission was 
to reform her family and relatives generally. This 
was a heavy task for one so young, particularly in 
Priscilla's case, for, besides a father, mother, brother, 
and sister, in whom she could not but discern many 
and serious failings, she possessed an aunt who was 
addicted to insincerity, two female cousins whose 
selfishness and unamiability were painful to witness, 
and a male cousin who talked slang and was so 
worldly that he habitually went about in yellow 
boots ! Nevertheless Priscilla did not flinch, although^ 
for some reason, her earnest and unremitting efforts 


40 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


had hitherto failed to produce any deep impression. 
At times she thought this was owing to the fact that 
she tried to reform all her family together, and that 
her best plan would be to take each one separately, 
and devote her whole energies to improving that 
person alone. But then she never could make up 
her mind which member of the family to begin with. 
It is small wonder that she often felt a little dis- 
heartened, but even that was a cheering symptom, 
for in the books it is generally just when the little 
heroine becomes most discouraged that the seemingly 
impenitent relative exhibits the first sign of softening. 

So Priscilla persevered : sometimes with merely a 
shocked glance of disapproval, which she had prac- 
tised before the looking-glass until she could do it 
perfectly ; sometimes with some tender, tactful little 
hint. “Don’t you think, dear papa,” she would say 
softly, on a Sunday morning, “ don’t you think you 
could write your newspaper article on some other day 
— is it a work of real necessity ? ” Or she would ask 
her mother, who was certainly fond of wearing pretty 
things, ‘ ‘ How much bread for poor starving people 
would the price of your new bonnet buy, mother ? 
I should so like to work it out on my little slate ! ” 

Then she would remind her brother Alick that it 
would be so much better if, instead of wasting his 
time in playing with silly little tin soldiers, he would 
try to learn as much as he could before he was sent 
to school ; while she was never tired of quoting to 
her sister Betty the line, “Be good, sweet maid, and 
let who will be clever ! ” which Betty, quite unjustly, 
interpreted to mean that Priscilla thought but poorly 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


41 


of her sister’s intellectual capacity. Once when, as a 
great treat, the children were allowed to read “Ivan- 
hoe ” aloud, Priscilla declined to participate until she 
had conscientiously read up the whole Norman period 
in her English history ; and on another occasion she 
cried bitterly on hearing that her mother had ar- 
ranged for them to learn dancing, and even endured 
bread and water for an entire day rather than consent 
to acquire an accomplishment which she feared, from 
what she had read, would prove a snare. On the 
second day — well, there was roast beef and Yorkshire 
pudding for dinner, and Priscilla yielded ; but she 
made the resolution — and kept it too — that, if she 
went to the dancing class, she would firmly refuse to 
take the slightest pains to learn a single qtep. 

I only mention all these traits to show that Pris- 
cilla really was an unusually good child, which makes 
it the more sad and strange that her family should have 
profited so little by her example. She was neither loved 
nor respected as she ought to have been, I am grieved 
to say. Her papa, when he was not angry, made 
the cruellest fun of her mild reproofs ; her mother con- 
tinued to spend money on dresses and bonnets, and 
even allowed the maid to say that her mistress was 
“not at home,” when she was merely unwilling to re- 
ceive visitors. Alick and Betty, too, only grew more 
exasperated when Priscilla urged them to keep their 
tempers, and altogether she could not help feeling 
how wasted' and thrown away she was in such a 
circle. 

But she never quite lost heart ; her papa was a lit- 
erary man and wrote tales, some of which she feared 


42 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


were not as true as they affected to be, while he inva- 
riably neglected to insert a moral in any of them ; 
frequently she dropped little remarks before -him with 
apparent carelessness, in the hope that he might 
put them in print — but he never did ; she never 
could recognise herself as a character in any of his 
stories, and so at last she gave up reading them at 
all! 

But one morning she came more near to giving up 
in utter despair than ever before. Only the previous 
day she had been so hopeful I her father had really 
seemed to be beginning to appreciate his little daugh- 
ter, and had presented her with sixpence in the new 
coinage to put in her money-box. This had embold- 
ened her to such a degree that, happening on the 
following morning to hear him ejaculate “Confound 
it ! she had, pressing one hand to her beating heart 
and laying the other hand softly upon his shoulder 
(which is the proper attitude on these occasions), re- 
minded him that such an expression was scarcely less 
reprehensible than actual bad language. Upon which 
her hard-hearted papa had told her, almost sharply, 

‘ ‘ not to he a little prig! ” 

Priscilla forgave him, of course, and freely, because 
he was her father and it was her duty to bear with 
him ; but she felt the injustice, deeply, for all that. 
Then, when she went up into the nursery, Alick and 
Betty made a frantic uproar, merely because she in- 
sisted on teaching them the moves in chess, when 
they perversely wanted to play Halma ! So, feeling 
baffled and sick at heart, she had put on her hat and 
run out all alone to a quiet lane near her home, where 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


43 


she could soothe her troubled mind by thinking over 
the ingratitude and lack of appreciation with which 
her efforts were met. 

She had not gone very far up the lane when she 
saw, seated on a bench, a bent old woman in a poke- 
bonnet with a crutch-handled stick in her hands, and 
this old woman Priscilla (who was very quick of ob- 
servation) instantly guessed to be a fairy — in which, 
as it fell out, she was perfectly right. 

“Good -day, my pretty child croaked the old 
dame. 

“ Good-day to you, ma’am ! ” answered Priscilla po- 
litely (for she knew that it was not only right but pru- 
dent to be civil to fairies, particularly when they take 
the form of old women). “But, if you please, 
you mustn’t call me pretty — because I’m not. At 
least,” she added, for she prided herself upon her 
truthfulness, “ not pretty. And I should hate 

to be always thinking about my looks, like poor 
Milly — she’s our housemaid, you know — and I so 
often have to tell her that she did not make her own 
face. ” 

“I don’t alarm you, I see,” said the old crone; 
“ but possibly you’re not aware that you’re talking to 
a fairy .? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I am — but I’m not a bit afraid, because, 
you see, fairies can only hurt had children.” 

“Ah, and you’re a good little child — that’s not 
difficult to see ! ” 

“They don’t see it at home ! ” said Priscilla, with 
a sad little sigh, “or they would listen more when 
I tell them of things they oughtn’t to do.” 


44 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


‘‘And what things do they do that they oughtn't 
to, my child — if you don’t mind telling me ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t mind in the least!'' Priscilla hastened 
to assure her ; and then she told the old woman all 
her family’s faults, and the trial it was to bear with 
them and go on trying to induce them to mend their 
ways. “And papa is getting worse than ever,” she 
concluded dolefully; “only fancy, this very morning 
he called me a little prig ! ” 

“Tut, tut ! ’’said the fairy sympathetically, “deary, 
deary me ! So he called you that, did he ? — a little 
prig ’ ! And you, too ! Ah, the world’s coming to a 
pretty pass ! I suppose, now, your papa and the rest 
of them have got it into their heads that you are too 
young and too inexperienced to set up as their adviser 
— is that it t " 

‘ ‘ I’m afraid so, ” admitted Priscilla ; ‘ ‘ but we 
mustn’t blame them,” she added gently, “ we must 
remember that they don’t know any better — mustn’t 
we, ma’am ? ” 

“ You sweet child ! ” said the old lady with enthu- 
siasm ; “I must see if I can’t do something to help 
you, though I’m not the fairy I used to be — still, there 
are tricks I can manage still, if I’m put to it. What 
you want is something that will prove to them that 
they ought to pay more attention to you, eh .? — some- 
thing there can be no possible mistake about t " 

“ Yes ! ” cried Priscilla eagerly, “ and — and — how 
would it be if you change them into something else, 
just to show them, and then I could ask for them to 
be transformed back again, you know t " 

“What an ingenious little thing you are ! ” exclaimed 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


45 

the fairy ; “ but, let us see — if you came home and 
found your cruel papa doing duty as the family 
hat-stand, or strutting about as a Cochin China 
fowl ” 

“ Oh, jyes ; and Td feed him every day, till he was 
sorry ! ” interrupted the warm-hearted little girl im- 
pulsively. 

“ Ah, but you’re so hasty, my dear. Who would 
write all the clever articles and tales to earn bread 
and meat for you all ? — fowls can’t use a pen. No, 
we must find a prettier trick than that — there was one 
I seem to remember, long, long ago, performing for 
a good little ill-used girl, just like you, my dearie, 
just like you ! Now what was it ? some gift I gave 
her whenever she opened her lips ” 

“ Why, /remember — how funny that you should 
have forgotten ! Whenever she opened her lips, roses, 
and diamonds, and rubies fell out. That would be 
the very thing ! Then they’d have to attend to me ! 
Oh, do be a kind old fairy and give me a gift like that 
—do, dor 

“Now, don’t be so impetuous ! You forget that this 
is not the time of year for roses, and as for jewels, 
well, I don’t think I can be very far wrong in supposing 
that you open your lips pretty frequently in the course 
of the day .? ” 

“ Alick does call me a ' mag ’, ” said Priscilla ; “ but 
that’s wrong, because I never speak without having 
something to say. I don’t think people ought to — it 
may do so much harm ; mayn’t it } ” 

“ Undoubtedly. But, anyhow, if we made it every 
time you opened your lips, you would soon ruin me 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


46 

in precious stones, that’s plain ! No, I think we had 
better say that the jewels shall only drop when you. 
are saying something you wish to be particularly 
improving — how will that do ? ” 

^‘Very nicely indeed, ma’am, thank you,” said 
Priscilla, “ because, you see, it comes to just the 
same thing.” 

“ Ah, well, try to be as economical of your good 
things as you can — remember that in these hard times 
a poor old fairy’s riches are not as inexhaustible as 
they used to be.” 

“ And jewels really will drop out ? ” 

“Whenever they are wanted to ‘point a moral 
and adorn a tale, ’ ” said the old woman (who, for a 
fairy, was particularly well-read). “ There, run along 
home, do, and scatter your pearls before your rela- 
tions.” 

It need scarcely be said that Priscilla was only too 
willing to obey ; she ran all the way home with a 
light heart, eager to exhibit her wonderful gift. 
“ How surprised they will be ! ” she was thinking. 
“ If it had been Betty, instead of me, I suppose she 
would have come back talking toads ! It would 
have been a good lesson for her — but still, toads 
are nasty things, and it would have been rather un- 
pleasant for the rest of us. I think I won’t tell Betty 
where I met the fairy.” 

She came in and took her place demurely at the 
family luncheon, which was the children’s dinner ; 
they were all seated already, including her father, 
who had got through most of his writing in the course 
of the morning. 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 47 

‘‘Now make haste and eat your dinner, Priscilla,” 
said her mother, “ or it will be quite cold.” 

“ I always let it get a little cold, mother,” replied 
the good little girl, “ so that I mayn’t come to think 
too much about eating, you know.” 

As she uttered this remark, she felt a jewel pro- 
ducing itself in some mysterious way from the tip 
of her tongue, and saw it fall with a clatter into her 
plate. “I’ll pretend not to notice anything,” she 
thought. 

“ Hullo !” exclaimed Alick, pausing in the act of 
mastication, “ I say — Prissie!” 

‘ ‘ If you ask mother, I’m sure she will tell you that 
it is most ill-mannered to speak with your mouth full, ” 
said Priscilla, her speech greatly impeded by an im- 
mense emerald. 

“I like that ! ” exclaimed her rude brother ; “who’s 
speaking with their mouth full now ? ” 

“ ^ Their’ is not grammar, dear,” was Priscilla’s 
only reply to this taunt, as she delicately ejected a 
pearl, “ you should say her mouth full.” For Pris- 
cilla’s grammar was as good as her principles. 

“ But really, Priscilla, dear,” said her mother, who 
felt some embarrassment at so novel an experience 
as being obliged to find fault with her little daughter, 
“ you should not eat sweets just before dinner, and — 
and couldn’t you get rid of them in some other 
manner ? ” 

“ Sweets ! ” cried Priscilla, considerably annoyed 
at being so misunderstood, “ they are not sweets, 
mother. Look ! ” And she offered to submit one for 
inspection. 


48 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


“ If I may venture to express an opinion,” observed 
her father, ‘ ‘ I would rather that a child of mine should 
suck sweets than coloured beads, and in either case 
I object to having them prominently forced upon my 
notice at meal-times. But I daresay Tm wrong. I 
generally am.” 

“Papa is quite right, dear,” said her mother, “it 
is such a dangerous habit — suppose you were to 
swallow one, you know ! Put them in the fire, like 
a good girl, and go on with your dinner.” 

Priscilla rose without a word, her cheeks crimson- 
ing, and dropped the pearl, ruby, and emerald, with 
great accuracy, into the very centre of the fire. This 
done, she returned to her seat, and went on with her 
dinner in silence, though her feelings prevented her 
from eating very much. 

“ If they choose to think my pearls are only beads, 
or jujubes, or acidulated drops,” she said to herself 
bitterly, “I won’t waste any more on them, that’s 
all ! I won’t open my lips again, except to say quite 
ordinary things — so there ! ” 

If Priscilla had not been such a very good little 
girl, you might almost have thought she was in a 
temper ; but she was not ; her feelings were wounded, 
that was all, which is quite a different thing. 

That afternoon, her Aunt Margarine, Mrs. Hoyle, 
came to call. She was the aunt whom we have 
already mentioned as being given to insincerity ; she 
was not well off, and had a tendency to flatter people ; 
but Priscilla was fond of her notwithstanding, and 
she had never detected her in any insincerity towards 
herself. She was sent into the drawing-room to 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


49 

entertain her aunt until her mother was ready to 
come down, and her aunt, as usual, overwhelmed 
her with affectionate admiration. ‘ ‘ How pretty and 
well you are looking, my pet ! '' she began. “ And 
oh, what a beautiful frock you have on ! ” 

“The little silkworms wore it before I did, aunt,” 
said Priscilla modestly. 

“ How sweet of you to say so ! But they never 

looked half so well in it. I’ll be bou Why, my 

child, you’ve dropped a stone out of a brooch or 
something. Look — on the carpet there ! ” 

“ Oh,” said Priscilla carelessly, “it was out of my 
mouth — not out of a brooch, I never wear jewellery. 
I think jewellery makes people grow so conceited ; 
don’t you. Aunt Margarine .? ” 

“Yes, indeed, dearest — indeed you are so right ! ” 
said her aunt (who wore a cameo-brooch as large as 
a tart upon her cloak), “and — and surely that can’t 
be a diamond in your lap ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, it is. I met a fairy this morning in the 

lane, and so ” and here Priscilla proceeded to 

narrate her wonderful experience. “ I thought it 
might perhaps make papa and mamma value me a 
little more than they do,” she said wistfully, as she 
finished her story, “but they don’t take the least 
notice ; they made me put the jewels on the fire — 
they did, really ! ” 

“What blindness !” cried her aunt ; “ how can 
people shut their eyes to such a treasure ? And — 
and may I just have one look .? What, you really 
don’t want them ? — I may keep them for my very 
own ? You precious love ! Ah, I know a humble 
4 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


50 

home where you would be appreciated at your proper 
worth. What would I not give for my poor naughty 
Belle and Cathie to have the advantage of seeing 
more of such a cousin ! 

“I don’t know whether I could do them much 
good,” said Priscilla, “but I would try my best.” 

“I am sure you would!” said Aunt Margarine, 
‘‘and now, dearest sweet, I am going to ask your 
dear mamma to spare you to us for just a little while ; 
we must both beg very hard.” 

“ ril go and tell nurse to pack my things now, and 
then I can go away with you,” said the little girl. 

When her mother heard of the invitation, she con- 
sented quite willingly. “To tell you the truth. Mar- 
garine, ” she said, ‘ ‘ I shall be very glad for the child 
to have a change. She seems a little unhappy at 
home with us, and she behaved most unlike her usual 
self at lunch ; it cant be natural for a child of her age 
to chew large glass beads. Did your Cathie and Belle 
ever do such a thing ? ” 

“Never,” said Aunt Margarine, coughing. “It is 
a habit that certainly ought to be checked, and I 
promise you, my dear Lucy, that if you will only 
trust Priscilla to me, I will take away anything of 
that kind the very moment I find it. And I do think, 
poor as we are, we shall manage to make her feel at 
home. We are all so fond of your sweet Priscilla I ” 

So the end of it was that Priscilla went to stay with 
her aunt that very afternoon, and her family bore the 
parting with the greatest composure. 

“I can’t give you nice food, or a pretty bedroom 
to sleep in such as you have at home, ” said her kind 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


51 

aunt “We are very plain people, my pet; but at 
least we can promise you a warm welcome.” 

“Oh, auntie,” protested Priscilla, “you mustn’t 
think I mind a little hardship ! Why, if beds weren’t 
hard and food not nicely cooked now and then, we 
should soon grow too luxurious to do our duty, and 
that would be so very bad for us ! ” 

“ Oh, what beauties I ” cried her aunt involuntarily, 
as she stooped to recover several sparkling gems 
from the floor of the cab. “I mean — it’s better to 
pick them up, dear, don’t you think .? they might get 
in people’s way, you know. What a blessing you 
will be in our simple home ! I want you to do all 
you can to instruct your cousins ; don’t be afraid of 
telling them of any faults you may happen to see. 
Poor Cathie and Belle, I fear they are very far from 
being all they should be ! ” and Aunt Margarine 
heaved a sigh. 

“ Never mind, auntie ; they will be better in time, 
I am sure. I wasn’t always a good girl. ” 

Priscilla thoroughly enjoyed the first few days of 
her visit ; even her aunt was only too grateful for 
instruction, and begged that Priscilla would tell her, 
quite candidly, of any shortcomings she might notice. 
And Priscilla, very kindly and considerately, always 
did tell her. Belle and Catherine were less docile, 
and she saw that it would take her some time to win 
their esteem and affection ; but this was just what 
Priscilla liked : it was the usual experience of the 
heroines in the books, and much more interesting, 
too, than conquering her cousins’ hearts at once. 

Still, both Catherine and Belle persistently hardened 


52 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


their hearts against their gentle little cousin in the 
unkindest way ; they would scarcely speak to her, 
and chose to make a grievance out of the fact that 
one or other of them was obliged, by their mother’s 
strict orders, to be constantly in attendance upon her, 
in order to pick up and bring Mrs. Hoyle all the 
jewels that Priscilla scattered in profusion wherever 
she went. 

“ If you would only carry a plate about with you, 
Priscilla,” complained Belle one day, “you could 
catch the jewels in that.” 

“But I don’t want io catch the jewels, dear Belle,” 
said Priscilla, with a playful but very sweet smile ; 
“if other people prize such things, that is not my 
fault, is it ? Jewels do not make people any happier. 
Belle ! ” 

“ I should think not ! ” exclaimed Belle. “Pm sure 
my back perfectly aches with stooping, and so does 
Cathie’s. There ! that big topaz has just gone and 
rolled under the sideboard, and mother will be so 
angry if I don’t get it out ! It is too bad of you, 
Priscilla ! I believe you do it on purpose ! ” 

“Ah, you will know me better some day, dear,” 
was the gentle response. 

“Well, at all events, I think you might be naughty 
just now and then, Prissie, and give Cathie and me a 
half-holiday. ” 

‘ ‘ I would do anything else to please you, dear, but 
not that ; you must not ask me to do what is impos- 
sible.” 

Alas ! not even this angelic behaviour, not even the 
loving admonitions, the tender rebukes, the shocked 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


53 


reproaches that fell, accompanied by perfect cas- 
cades of jewels, from the lips of our pattern little 
Priscilla, succeeded in removing the utterly unfounded 
prejudices of her cousins, though it was some con- 
solation to feel that she was gradually acquiring a 
most beneficial influence over her aunt, who called 
Priscilla “ her little conscience.” For, you see, 
Priscilla’s conscience had so little to do on her own 
account that it was always at the service of other 
people, and indeed quite enjoyed being useful, as 
was only natural to a conscientious conscience which 
felt that it could never have been created to be 
idle. 

Very soon another responsibility was added to lit- 
tle Priscilla’s burdens. Her cousin Dick, the worldly 
one with the yellow boots, came home after his an- 
nual holiday, which, as he was the junior clerk in a 
large bank, he was obliged to take rather late in the 
year. She had looked forward to his return with 
some excitement. Dick, she knew, was frivolous 
and reckless in his habits — he went to the theatre oc- 
casionally, and frequently spent an evening in play- 
ing billiards and smoking cigars at a friend’s house. 
There would be real credit in reforming poor cousin 
Dick. 

He was not long, of course, in hearing of Priscilla’s 
marvellous endowment, and upon the first occasion 
they were alone together treated her with a respect 
and admiration which he had very certainly never 
shown her before. 

‘‘You’re wonderful, Prissie ! ” he said; “I’d no 
idea you had it in you ! ” 


54 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


‘‘Nor had I, Dick ; but it shows that even a little 
girl can do something.” 

“I should rather think so ! and — and the way you 
look — as grave as a judge all the time ! Prissie, I 
wish you’d tell me how you manage it, I wouldn’t 
tell a soul.” 

“But I don’t know, Dick. I only talk and the 
jewels come — that is all.” 

“You artful little girl! you can keep a secret, I 
see, but so can I. And you might tell me how you 
do the trick. What put you up to the dodge .? I’m 
to be trusted, I assure you.” 

“Dick, you can’t — you mustn’t — think there is any 
trickery about it ! How can you believe I could be 
such a wicked little girl as to play tricks.? It was 
an old fairy that gave me the gift. I’m sure I don’t 
know why — unless she thought that I was a good 
child and deserved to be encouraged.” 

“By Jove I ” cried Dick, “ I never knew you were 
half such fun ! ” 

“ I am not fun, Dick. I think fun is generally so 
very vulgar, and oh, I wish you wouldn’t say ‘by 
Jove 1 ’ Surely you know he was a heathen god ! ” 

“I seem to have heard of him in some such capa- 
city,” said Dick. “I say, Prissie, what a ripping big 
ruby I ” 

“Ah, Dick, Dick, you are like the others! I’m 
afraid you think more of the jewels than of any words 
I may say— and yet jewels are common enough ! ” 

“They seem to be with you. Pearls, too, and 
such fine ones ! Here, Priscilla, take them ; they’re 
your property. ” 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


55 

Priscilla put her hands behind her : “No, indeed, 
Dick, they are of no use to me. Keep them, please ; 
they may help to remind you of what I have said. ’’ 

“Its awfully kind of you,” said Dick, looking really 
touched. “Then — since you put it in that way — 
thanks, I will, Priscilla. Ill have them made into a 
horse-shoe pin. ” 

“You musn’t let it make you too fond of dress, 
then,” said Priscilla; “butTm afraid you’re that al- 
ready, Dick.” 

“A diamond!” he cried; “go on, Priscilla, Tm 
listening — pitch into me, it will do me a lot of good I ” 

But Priscilla thought it wisest to say no more just 
then. 

That night, after Priscilla and Cathie and Belle had 
gone to bed, Dick and his mother sat up talking until 
a late hour. 

“ Is dear little cousin Priscilla to be a permanency 
in this establishment } ” began her cousin, stifling a 
yawn, for there had been a rather copious flow of 
precious stones during the evening. ' 

“Well, I shall keep her with us as long as I can,” 
said Mrs. Hoyle, “she’s such a darling, and they 
don’t seem to want her at home. Tm sure, limited as 
my means are, Tm most happy to have such a vis- 
itor.” 

‘ ‘ She seems to pay her way — only her way is a 
trifle trying at times, isn’t it ? She lectured me for 
half an hour on end without a single check ! ” 

“Are you sure you picked them all up, dear boy ? ” 

“Got a few of the best in my waistcoat pocket 
now. I’m afraid I scrunched a pearl or two, though ; 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


56 

they were all over the place, you know. I suppose 
you’ve been collecting too, mater } ” 

“I picked up one or two,” said his mother; “I 
should think I must have nearly enough now to fill 
a bandbox. And that brings me to what I wanted to 
consult you about, Richard. How are we to dispose 
of them ? She has given them all to me.” 

“You haven’t done anything with them yet, 
then?” 

“ How could I ? I have been obliged to stay at 
home : I’ve been so afraid of letting that precious 
child go out of my sight for a single hour, for fear 
some unscrupulous persons might get hold of her. I 
thought that perhaps, when you came home, you 
would dispose of the jewels for me.” 

“But, mater,” protested Dick, “I can’t go about 
asking who’ll buy a whole bandbox full of jewels.” 

“Oh, very well, then ; I suppose we must go on 
living this hugger-mugger life when we have the 
means of being as rich as princes, just because you 
are too lazy and selfish to take a little trouble ! ” 

“I know something about these things, ’’said Dick. 
“I know a fellow who’s a diamond merchant, and 
it’s not so easy to sell a lot of valuable stones as you 
seem to imagine, mother. And then Priscilla really 
overdoes it, you know — why, if she goes on like this, 
she’ll make diamonds as cheap as currants ! ” 

“/should have thought that was a reason for sell- 
ing them as soon as possible ; but I’m only a woman, 
and of course my opinion is worth nothing ! Still, 
you might take some of the biggest to your friend, 
and accept whatever he’ll give you for them — there 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


57 

are plenty more, you needn’t haggle over the price.” 

‘‘ He’d want to know all about them, and what 
should I say? I can’t tell him a cousin of mine 
produces them whenever she feels disposed. ” 

‘‘You could say they have been in the family for 
some time, and you are obliged to part with them ; I 
don’t ask you to tell a falsehood, Richard.” 

“Well, to tell you the honest truth,” said Dick, 
“I’d rather have nothing to do with it. I’m not 
proud, but I shouldn’t like it to get about among our 
fellows at the bank that I went about hawking dia- 
monds.” 

“But, you stupid, undutiful boy, don’t you see 
that you could leave the bank — you need never do 
anything any more — we should all live rich and 
happy somewhere in the country, if we could only 
sell those jewels ! And you won’t do that one little 
thing ! ” 

“Well,” said Dick, “I’ll think over it. I’ll see 
what I can do. ” 

And his mother knew that it was perfectly useless 
to urge him any further : for, in some things, Dick 
was as obstinate as a mule, and, in others, far too 
easygoing and careless ever to succeed in life. He 
had promised to think over it, however, and she had 
to be contented with that. 

On the evening following this conversation cousin 
Dick entered the sitting-room the moment after his 
return from the City, and found his mother to all 
appearances alone. 

‘ ‘ What a dear sweet little guileless angel cousin 
Priscilla is, to be sure ! ” was his first remark. 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


58 

Then you sold some of the stones!"' cried 
Aunt Margarine. “Sit down, like a good boy, and 
tell me all about it. ” 

“Well," said Dick, “I took the finest diamonds and 
rubies and pearls that escaped from that saintlike 
child last night in the course of some extremely dis- 
paraging comments on my character and pursuits — 
I took those jewels to Faycett and Rosewaters in 
New Bond Street — you know the shop, on the right- 

hand side as you go up " 

“Oh, go on, Dick ; go on — never mind where it is 
— how much did you get for them ? " 

“I’m coming to that; keep cool, dear mamma. 
Well, I went in, and I saw the manager, and I said : 
‘ I want you to make these up into a horse-shoe scarf- 
pin for me. ’ " 

“You said that! You never tried to sell one? 
Oh, Dick, you are too provoking ! ’’ 

“Hold on, mater; I haven’t done yet. So the 
manager — a very gentlemanly person, rather thin on 
the top of the head — not that that affects his business 

capacities ; for, after all ’’ 

‘ ‘ Dick, do you want to drive me frantic ? " 

“I can’t conceive any domestic occurrence which 
would be more distressing or generally inconvenient, 
mother dear. You do interrupt a fellow so ! I 
forgot where I was now — oh, the manager, ah, yes ! 
Well, the manager said, ‘We shall be very happy to 
have the stones made in any design you may select’ 
— jewellery, by the way, seems to exercise a most 
refining influence upon the manners ; this man had 
the deportment of a duke — ‘ you may select,’ he said ; 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


59 

* but of course I need not tell you that none of these 
stones are genuine/ ” 

‘‘Not genuine!’’ cried Aunt Margarine, excitedly. 
“They must be — he was lying 1 ” 

“ West-end jewellers never lie,” said Dick; “but 
naturally, when he said that, I told him I should like 
to have some proof of his assertion. ‘ Will you take 
the risk of testing .? ’ said he. ‘ Test away, my dear 
man I ’ said I. So he brought a little wheel near the 
emerald — ‘ whizz 1 ’ and away went the emerald I 
Then he let a drop of something fall on the ruby — and 
it fizzled up for all the world like pink champagne. 
‘Go on, don’t mind me!' I told him, so he touched 
the diamond with an electric wire — ‘ phit 1 ’ and there 
was only something that looked like the ash of a 
shocking bad cigar. Then the pearls — and they 
popped like so many air-balloons. ‘ Are you satis- 
fied ? ’ he asked. 

“‘Oh, perfectly,’ said I, ‘you needn’t trouble 
about the horse-shoe pin now. Good-evening,’ and 
so I came away, after thanking him for his very 
amusing scientific experiments.” 

“ And do you believe that the jewels are all shams, 
Dick .? — do you really .? ” 

‘ ‘ I think it so probable that nothing on earth will 
induce me to offer a single one for sale. I should 
never hear the last of it at the bank. No, mater, 
dear little Priscilla’s sparkling conversation may be 
unspeakably precious from a moral point of view, but 
it has no commercial value. Those jewels are bogus 
— shams every stone of them 1 ” 

Now, all this time our heroine had been sitting un- 


6o 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


perceived in a corner behind a window-curtain, read- 
ing “The Wide, Wide World,” a work which she was 
never weary of perusing. Some children would have 
come forward earlier, but Priscilla was never a for- 
ward child, and she remained as quiet as a little mouse 
up to the moment when she could control her feelings 
no longer. 

“It isn't true!” she cried passionately, bursting 
out of her retreat and confronting her cousin; “it's 
cruel and unkind to say my jewels are shams 1 They 
are real — they are, they are!” 

“ Hullo, Prissie 1 ” said her abandoned cousin ; “so 
you combine jewel-dropping with eaves-dropping, 
eh? ” 

“How dare you!” cried Aunt Margarine, almost 
beside herself, “ you odious little prying minx, setting 
up to teach your elders and your betters with your 
cut and dried priggish maxims ! When I think how 
I have petted and indulged you all this time, and 
borne with the abominable litter you left in every 
room you entered — and now to find you are only 
a little, conceited, hypocritical impostor — oh, why 
haven't I words to express my contempt for such 
conduct — why am I dumb at such a moment as 
this ? ” 

“Come, mother,” said her son soothingly, “that’s 
not such a bad beginning ; I should call it fairly fluent 
and expressive, myself.” 

“ Be quiet, Dick ! I'm speaking to this wicked 
child, who has obtained our love and sympathy and 
attention on false pretences, for which she ought to 
be put in prison — yes, in prison, for such a heartless 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 6 1 

trick on relatives who can ill afford to be so cruelly 
disappointed ! ” 

“But, aunt!” expostulated poor Priscilla, “you 
always said you only kept the jewels as souvenirs, 
and that it did you so much good to hear me talk ! ” 

“Don’t argue with me, miss 1 If I had known the 
stones were wretched tawdry imitations, do you im- 
agine for an instant ? ” 

“Now, mother,” said Dick, “be fair — they were 
uncommonly good imitations, you must admit that ! ” 

“Indeed, indeed I thought they were real, the fairy 
never told me ! ” 

“After all,” said Dick, “it’s not Priscilla’s fault. 
She can’t help it if the stones aren’t real, and she 
made up for quality by quantity anyhow ; didn’t you, 
Prissie ? ” 

“ Hold your tongue, Richard ; she could help it, she 
knew it all the time, and she’s a hateful, sanctimoni- 
ous little stuck-up viper, and so I tell her to her 
face!” 

Priscilla could scarcely believe that kind, indulg- 
ent, smooth-spoken Aunt Margarine could be ad- 
dressing such words to her ; it frightened her so much 
that she did not dare to answer, and just then Cathie 
and Belle came into the room. 

“Oh, mother,” they began penitently, “we’re so 
sorry, but we .couldn’t find dear Prissie anywhere, 
so we haven’t picked up anything the whole after- 
noon ! ” 

“Ah, my poor darlings, you shall never be your 
cousin’s slaves any more. Don’t go near her, she’s a 
naughty, deceitful wretch ; her jewels are false, my 


62 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


sweet loves, false ! She has imposed upon us all, she 
does not deserve to associate with you ! 

“I always said Prissie’s jewels looked like the 
things you get on crackers ! ” said Belle, tossing her 
head. 

“ Now we shall have a little rest, I hope,” chimed 
in Cathie. 

“I shall send her home to her parents this very 
night,” declared Aunt Margarine ; “ she shall not stay 
here to pervert our happy household with her miser- 
able gewgaws I ” 

Here Priscilla found her tongue. “Do you think 
I want to stay } ” she said proudly ; “I see now that 
you only wanted to have me here because — because 
of the horrid jewels, and I never knew they were false, 
and I let you have them all, every one, you know I 
did ; and I wanted you to mind what I said and not 
trouble about picking them up, but you would do it ! 
And now you all turn round upon me like this ! 
What have I done to be treated so ? What have I 
done ? ” 

“ Bravo, Prissie ! ” cried Dick. “ Mother, if you ask 
me, I think it serves us all jolly well right, and iPs 
a downright shame to bullyrag poor Prissie in this 
way ! ” 

“I don’t ask you,” retorted his mother sharply ; 
“so you will kindly keep your opinions to your- 
self.” 

“Tra-la-la!” sang rude Dick, “we are a united 
family — we are, we are, we are ! ” — a vulgar refrain 
he had picked up at one of the burlesque theatres 
he was only too fond of frequenting. 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 63 

But Priscilla came to him and held out her hand 
quite gratefully and humbly. “Thank you, Dick,” 
she said ; “j/ow are kind, at all events. And I am 
sorry you couldn’t have your horse-shoe pin ! ” 

“ Oh, hang the horse-shoe pin ! ” exclaimed Dick, 
and poor Priscilla was so thoroughly cast down that 
she quite forgot to reprove him. 

She was not sent home that night after all, for 
Dick protested against it in such strong terms that 
even Aunt Margarine saw that she must give way ; 
but early on the following morning Priscilla quitted 
her aunt’s house, leaving her belongings to be sent on 
after her. 

She had not far to walk, and it so happened that 
her way led through the identical lane in which she 
had met the fairy. Wonderful to relate, there, on the 
very same stone and in precisely the same attitude, 
sat the old lady, peering out from under her poke- 
bonnet, and resting her knotty old hands on her 
crutch-handled stick ! 

Priscilla walked past with her head in the air, 
pretending not to notice her, for she considered that 
the fairy had played her a most malicious and ill- 
natured trick. 

“ Heyday ! ” said the old lady (it is only fairies who 
can permit themselves such old-fashioned expres- 
sions nowadays). “Heyday, why, here’s my good 
little girl again ! Isn’t she going to speak to me ? ” 

“No, she’s not,” said Priscilla — but she found 
herself compelled to stop, notwithstanding. 

“Why, what’s all this about.? You’re not going 
to sulk with me, my dear, are you ? ” 


64 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


think you’re a very cruel, bad, unkind old 
woman for deceiving me like this ! ” 

“Goodness me! Why, didn’t the jewels come, 
after all ? ” 

“Yes — they came, only they were all horrid arti- 
ficial ones — and it is a shame, it is / ” cried poor 
Priscilla from her bursting heart. 

‘ ‘ Artificial, were they } that really is very odd I 
Can you account for that at all, now ? ” 

“Of course I can’t 1 You told me that they would 
drop out whenever I said anything to improve 
people — and I was always saying something improv- 
ing 1 Aunt had a bandbox in her room quite full of 
them. ” 

‘ ‘Ah, you’ve been very industrious, evidently ; it’s 
unfortunate your jewels should all have been artificial 
— most unfortunate. I don’t know how to explain it, 
unless — ” (and here the old lady looked up queerly 
from under her white eyelashes) — “unless your 
goodness was artificial too t ” 

“How do you mean?” asked Priscilla, feeling 
strangely uncomfortable. “I’m sure I’ve never done 
anything the least bit naughty — how can my goodness 
possibly be artificial ? ” 

“Ah, that I can’t explain ; but I know this — that 
people who are really good are generally the last 
persons to suspect it, and the moment they become 
aware of it and begin to think how good they are, and 
how bad everybody else is, why, somehow or other, 
their goodness crumbles away and leaves only a sort 
of outside shell behind it. And — I’m very old, and of 
course I may be mistaken — but I think (I only say I 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


65 

think, mind) that a little girl so young as you must 
have some faults hidden about her somewhere, and 
that perhaps on the whole she would be better 
employed in trying to find them out and cure them 
before she attempted to correct those of other people. 
And Fm sure it can’t be good for any child to be 
always seeing herself in a little picture, just as she 
likes to fancy other people see her. Very many pretty 
books are written about good little girls, and it is 
quite true that children may exercise a great influence 
for good — more than they can ever tell, perhaps — but 
only just so long as they remain natural and un- 
conscious and not unwholesome little pragmatical 
prigesses ; for then they make themselves and other 
people worse than they might have been. But of 
course, my dear, you never made such a mistake as 
that ! ” 

Priscilla turned very red, and began to scrape 
one of her feet against the other ; she was think- 
ing, and her thoughts were not at all pleasant 
ones. 

“ Oh, fairy,” she said at last, “Fm afraid that’s just 
what I did do. I was always thinking how good I 
was and putting everybody — papa, mamma, Alick, 
Betty, Aunt Margarine, Cathie, Belle, and even poor 
cousin Dick — right ! I have been a horrid little 
hateful prig, and that’s why all the jewels were 
rubbish. But, oh, shall I have to go on talking sham 
diamonds and things all the rest of my life ? ” 

That,” said the fairy, “ depends entirely on your- 
self. You have the remedy in your own hands — or 
lips.” 


5 


66 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 


‘‘Ah, you mean I needn’t talk at all ? But I must 
— sometimes. I couldn’t bear to be dumb as long as 
I lived — and it would look so odd, too ! ” 

“I never said you were not to open your lips at 
all. But can’t you try to talk simply and naturally 
— not like little girls or boys in any story-books what- 
ever — not to ‘show off’ or improve people ; only as 
a girl would talk who remembers that, after all, her 
elders are quite as likely as she is to know w^hat they 
ought or ought not to do and say ! ” 

“I shall forget sometimes, I know I shall ! ” said 
Priscilla disconsolately. 

“If you do, there will be something to remind you, 
you know. And by and by, perhaps, as you grow up 
you may, quite by accident, say something sincere 
and noble and true — and then a jewel will fall which 
will really be of value. 

“No!” cried Priscilla, “no, please! Oh, fairy, 
let me off that 1 If I must drop them, let them be 
false ones to punish me — not real. I don’t want to 
be rewarded any more for being good — if I ever am 
really good ! ” 

“Come,” said the fairy, with a much pleasanter 
smile, “you are not a hopeless case, at all events. 
It shall be as you wish, then, and perhaps it will be 
the wisest arrangement for all parties. Now run 
away home, and see how little use you can make of 
your fairy gift.” 

Priscilla found her family still at breakfast. 

“Why,” observed her father, raising his eyebrows 
as she entered the room, “here’s our little monitor 
--(or is it monitress, eh, Priscilla?) — back again. 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL. 67 

Children, we shall all have to mind our p’s and q’s — 
and, indeed, our entire alphabet, now ! ” 

“I’m sure,” said her mother, kissing her fondly, 
“ Priscilla knows we’re all delighted to have her 
home ! ”• 

“/’w not,” said Alick, with all a boy’s engaging 
candour. 

“ Nor am I,” added Betty, “ it’s been ever so much 
nicer at home while she’s been away ! ” 

Priscilla burst into tears as she hid her face upon 
her mother’s protecting shoulder. “ It’s true ! ” she 
sobbed, “ I don’t deserve that you should be glad to 
see me — I’ve been hateful and horrid, I know — but, 
oh, if you’ll only forgive me and love me and put up 
with me a little. I’ll try not to preach and be a prig 
any more — I will truly ! ” 

And at this her father called her to his side and 
embraced her with a fervour he had not shown for a 
very long time. 

I should not like to go so far as to assert that no 
imitation diamond, ruby, pearl, or emerald ever pro- 
ceeded from Priscilla’s lips again. Habits are not 
cured in a day, and fairies — however old they may 
be — are still fairies ; so it did occasionally happen that 
a mock jewel made an unwelcome appearance after 
one of Priscilla’s more unguarded utterances. But she 
was always frightfully ashamed and abashed by such 
an accident, and buried the imitation stones immedi- 
ately in a corner of the garden. And as time went 
on the jewels grew smaller and smaller, and frequently 
dissolved upon her tongue, leaving a faintly bitter 


68 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL, 


taste, until at last they ceased altogether and Priscilla 
became as pleasant and unaffected a girl as she who 
may now be finishing this history. 

Aunt Margarine never sent back the contents of that 
bandbox ; she kept the biggest stones an'd had a 
brooch made of them, while, as she never mentioned 
that they were false, no one out of the family ever so 
much as suspected it. 

But, for all that, she always declared that her niece 
Priscilla had bitterly disappointed her expectations 
— which was perhaps the truest thing that Aunt 
Margarine ever said. 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


PART I. 

It is a little singular that, upon an engagement be- 
coming known and being discussed by the friends 
and acquaintances of the persons principally con- 
cerned, by far the most usual tone of comment should 
be a sorrowing wonder. That particular alliance is 
generally the very last that anybody ever expected. 
^‘What made him choose her, of all people,” and 
“What on earth she could see in him,'' are declared 
insoluble problems. It is confidently predicted that 
the engagement will never come to anything, or that, 
if such a marriage ever does take place, it is most 
unlikely to prove a success. 

Sometimes, in the case of female friends, this tone 
is even perceptible under their warmest felicitations, 
and through the smiling mask of compliment shine eyes 
moist with the most irritating quality of compassion. 
“So glad! so delighted 1 But why, why didn’t you 
consult me ? " — this complicated expression might be 
rendered : “I could have saved you from this — Iwas 
so pleased to hear of it 1 ” 

And yet, in the majority of cases, these unions are 
not found to turn out so very badly after all, and the 
misguided couple seem really to have gauged their 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


70 

own hearts and their possibilities of happiness to- 
gether more accurately than the most clear-sighted of 
their acquaintances. 

The announcement that Ella Hylton had accepted 
George Chapman provoked the customary sensation 
and surprise in their respective sets, and perhaps with 
rather more justification than usual. 

Miss Hylton had undeniable beauty of a spiritual 
and rather exal/e type, and was generally understood 
to be highly cultivated. She had spent a year at 
Somerville, though she had gone down without trying 
for a place in either “Mods.” or “Greats,” thereby 
preserving, if not increasing, her reputation for su- 
periority. She had lived all her life among cultured 
people ; she was devoted to music, and regularly 
attended the Richter Concerts, though she could 
seldom be induced to play in public ; she had a feel- 
ing for art, though she neither painted nor drew ; a 
love of literature strong enough to deter her from all 
amateur efforts in that direction. In art, music and 
literature she was impatient of mediocrity ; and, while 
she was as fond as most girls of the pleasures which 
upper middle-class society can offer, she reverenced 
intellect, and preferred the conversation of the plainest 
celebrity to the platitudes of the mere dancing-man, 
no matter how handsome of feature and perfect of 
step he might be. 

George Chapman was certainly not a mere dancing- 
man, his waltzing being rather conscientious than 
dreamlike, and he was only tolerably good-looking. 
On the other hand, he was not celebrated in any way, 
and even his mother and sisters had never considered 


A MAl^TER OF TASTE. 


71 

him brilliant. He had been educated at Rugby and 
Trinity, Cambridge, where he rowed a fairly good oar, 
on principle, and took a middle second in the Moral 
Science Tripos. Now he was in a solicitor’s office, 
where he was receiving a good salary, and was valued 
as a steady, sensible young fellow, who could be 
thoroughly depended upon. He was fond of his pro- 
fession, and had acquired a considerable knowledge 
of its details ; apart from it he had no very decided 
tastes ; he lived a quiet, regular life, and dined out 
and went to dances in moderation ; his manner, 
though he was nearly twenty-six, was still rather 
boyishly blunt. 

What there was in him that had found favour in 
Ella Hylton’s fastidious eyes the narrator is not rash 
enough to attempt to particularise. But it may be 
suggested that the most unlikely people may possess 
their fairy rose and ring which render them irresistible 
to at least one heart, if they only have faith to believe 
in and luck to perceive their power. 

So, early in the year, George had plucked up 
courage to propose to Miss Hylton, after meeting and 
secretly adoring her for some months past, and she, 
to the general astonishment, had accepted him. 

He had a private income — not a large one — of his 
own, and had saved out of it. She was entitled under 
her grandmother’s will to a sum which made her an 
heiress in a modest way, and thus there was no reason 
why the engagement should be a long one, and, 
though no date had been definitely fixed for the 
marriage, it was understood that it should take place 
at some time before the end of the summer, 


1 ^ 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


Soon after the engagement, however, an invalid 
aunt with whom Ella had always been a great 
favourite, was ordered to the south of France, and 
implored her to go with her ; which Ella, who had a 
real affection for her relative, as well as a strong sense 
of duty, had consented to do. 

This was a misfortune in one of two ways : it 
either curtailed that most necessary and most delight- 
ful period during which fiances discover one another’s 
idiosyncrasies and weaknesses, or it made it neces- 
sary to postpone the marriage. 

George naturally preferred the former, as the more 
endurable evil ; but Ella’s letters from abroad began 
to hint more and more plainly at delay. Her aunt 
might remain on the Continent all the summer, and 
she could not possibly leave her ; there was so much 
to be done after her return that could not be done in 
a hurry ; they had not even begun to furnish the 
pretty little house on Campden Hill that was to be 
their new home — it would be better to wait till No- 
vember, or even later. 

The mere idea was alarming to George, and he 
remonstrated as far as he dared ; but Ella remained 
firm, and he grew desperate. 

He might have spared himself the trouble. About 
the middle of June Ella’s aunt — who, of course, had 
had to leave the Riviera — grew tired of travelling, 
and Ella, to George’s intense satisfaction, returned to 
her mother’s house in Linden Gardens, Netting Hill. 

And now, when our story opens, George, who had 
managed to get away from ofhce-work two hours 
before his usual time, was hurrying towards Linden 


A MA TTER OF TASTE, 


73 

Gardens as fast as a hansom could take him, to see 
his betrothed for the first time after their long separa- 
tion. 

He was eager, naturally, and a little nervous. 
Would Ella still persist in her wish for delay ? or 
would he be able to convince her that there were no 
obstacles in the way ? He felt he had strong argu- 
ments on his side, if only — and here was the real seat 
of his anxiety — if only her objections were not raised 
from some other motive ! She might have been try- 
ing to prepare him for a final rupture, and then — 
‘ ‘Well, ” he concluded, with his customary good sense, 

‘ ‘ no use meeting trouble half-way — in five minutes I 
shall know for certain ! ” 

At the same moment Mrs. Hylton and her daughter 
Flossie, a vivacious girl in the transitionary sixteen- 
year-old stage, were in the drawing-room at Linden 
Gardens. It was the ordinary double drawing-room 
of a London house, but everything in it was beautiful 
and harmonious. The eye was vaguely rested by 
the delicate and subdued colour of walls and hang- 
ings ; cabinets, antique Persian pottery, rare bits of 
china, all occupied the precise place in which their 
decorative value was most felt ; a room, in short, of 
exceptional individuality and distinction. 

Flossie was standing at .the window, from which a 
glimpse could just be caught of fresh green foliage 
and the lodge-gates, with the bustle of the traffic in 
the High Street beyond ; Mrs. Hylton was writing at 
a Flemish bureau in the corner. 

“I suppose,” said Flossie meditatively, as she fin- 


A MATTER OF TASTE, 


74 

gered a piece of old stained glass that was hanging 
in the window, “we shall have George here this 
afternoon ? ” 

Mrs. Hylton raised her head. She had a striking 
face, tinted a clear olive, with a high wave of silver 
hair crowning the forehead ; her eyebrows were dark, 
and so were the brilliant eyes ; the nose was aquiline, 
and the thin, well-cut mouth a little hard. She was 
a woman who had been much admired in her time, 
and who still retained a certain attraction, though 
some were apt to find her somewhat cold and unsym- 
pathetic. Her daughter Ella, for example, was always 
secretly a little in awe of her mother, who, however, 
had no terrors for audacious, outspoken Flossie. 

“If he comes, Flossie, he will be very welcome,” 
she said, “ but I hardly expect him yet George is 
not likely to neglect his duties, even for Ella. ” 

Flossie pursed her mouth rather scornfully : “Oh, 
George is immaculate ! ” she murmured. 

“If he was, it would hardly be a reproach,” said 
her mother, catching the word ; ‘ ‘ but, at all events, 
George has thoroughly good principles, and is sure to 
succeed in the world. I have every reason to be 
pleased. ” 

‘ ‘ Every reason ? — ah ! but are you pleased ? 
Mother, dear, you know he’s as dull as dull ! ” 

“Ella does not find him so — and, Flossie, I don’t 
Jike to hear you say such things, even in Ella’s 
absence. ” 

“Oh, I never abuse him to Ella; it wouldn’t be 
any use : she’s firmly convinced that he’s perfection — 
at least she was before she went away. ” 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


75 

'*Why? do you mean that she has altered? — have 
you seen any sign of it, Flossie ? ” 

Mrs. Hylton made this inquiry sharply, but not as 
if such a circumstance would be altogether displeas- 
ing to her. 

‘'Oh, no; only she hasn’t seen him for so long, 
you know. Perhaps, when she' comes to look at him 
with fresh eyes, she’ll notice things more. Ah, here 
is George, just getting out of a hansom — so he has 
played truant for once ! There’s one thing I do think 
Ella might do — persuade him to shave off some of 
those straggly whiskers. I wonder why he never 
seems to get a hat or anything else like other 
people’s ! ” 

Presently George was announced. He was slightly 
above middle height, broad-shouldered and fresh- 
coloured ; the obnoxious whiskers did indeed cover 
more of his cheeks than modern fashion prescribes for 
men of his age, and had evidently never known a 
razor ; he wore a turn-down collar and a necktie of a 
rather crude red ; his clothes were neat and well 
brushed, but not remarkable for their cut. 

“Well, my dear George,” said Mrs. Hylton, “we 
have seen very little of you while Ella has been 
away. ” 

“I know,” he said awkwardly ; “I’ve had a lot of 
things to look after in one way and another.” 

‘ ‘ What ? after your work at the office was over ? ” 
cried Flossie incredulously. 

“Yes — after that; it’s taken up my time a good 
deal.” 

“And so you couldn’t spare any to call here — I 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


76 

see ! ” said Flossie. ‘ ‘ George, ” she added, with a 
sudden diversion, “I wonder you aren’t afraid of 
catching cold ! How can you go about in such 
absurdly thin boots as those ? ” 

‘‘These?” he said, inspecting them doubtfully — 
they were strong, sensible boots with notched and 
projecting soles of ponderous thickness — “why, 
what’s the matter with them, Flossie, eh ? Don’t you 
think they’re strong enough for walking in ? ” 

“No, George ; they’re the very things for an after- 
noon dance, and quite a lot of couples could dance in 
them, you see. But for walking — ah, I’m afraid you 
sacrifice too much to appearances.” 

“I don’t, really!” George protested in all good 
faith ; “now do I, Mrs. Hylton ?” 

‘ ‘ Flossie is making fun of you, George ; you 
mustn’t mind her impertinence.” 

“Oh, is that all? Do you know, I really thought 
for the moment that she meant they were too small 
for me 1 You like getting a rise out of me, Flossie, 
don’t you ? ” 

And he laughed with such genuine and good- 
natured amusement that the young lady felt somehow 
a little small, and almost ashamed, although it took 
the form of suppressed irritation. “ He really ought 
not to come here in such things, ” she said to herself ; 

‘ ‘ and I don’t believe that, even now, he sees what I 
meant ” 

Just at this point Ella came in, with the least touch 
of shyness, perhaps, at meeting him before witnesses 
after so long an absence ; but she only looked the 
more charming in consequence, and, demure as her 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


11 

greeting was, her pretty eyes had a sparkle of plea- 
sure that scattered all George Chapman’s fears to the 
winds. Even Flossie felt instinctively that straggly- 
whiskered, red-necktied, thick-booted George had 
lost none of his divinity for Ella. 

They did not seem to have much to say to one 
another, notwithstanding ; possibly because Ella was 
called upon to dispense the tea which had just been 
brought in. George sat nursing the hat which Flossie 
found so objectionable, while he balanced a teacup 
with the anxious eye of a juggler out of practice, and 
the conversation flagged. At last, under pretence of 
renewing his tea, most which he had squandered upon 
a Persian rug, he crossed to Ella : “ I say, ” he sug- 
gested, ‘‘don’t you think you could come out for a 
little while? Eve such lots to tell you and — and I 
want you to go somewhere with me.” 

Mrs. Hylton made no objection, beyond stipulating 
that Ella must not be allowed to tire herself after her 
journey, and so, a few minutes later. Miss Hylton 
came down in her pretty summer hat and light cape, 
and she and George were allowed to set out. 

Once outside the house, he drew a long breath of 
mingled relief and pleasure: “By Jove, Ella, I am 
glad to get you back again ! I say, how jolly you do 
look in that hat ! Now, do you know where I’m going 
to take you ? ” 

“ It will be quietest in the gardens,” said Ella. 

“Ah, but that’s not where you’re going now,” he 
said with a delicious assumption of authority ; “ you’re 
coming with me to see a certain house on Campden 
Hill you may have heard of.” 


A MATTER OR TASTE. 


78 

‘ ‘ That will be delightful. I do want to see ouf 
dear little house again very much. And, George, we 
will go carefully over all the rooms, and settle what 
can be done with each of them. Then we can begin 
directly ; we haven’t too much time. ” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps, ” he said with a conscious laugh, ‘ ‘ it won’t 
take so much time as you think.” 

“ Oh, but it must — to do properly. And while I’ve 
been away I’ve had some splendid ideas for some of 
the rooms — I’ve planned them out so beautifully. 
You know that delightful little room at the back.? — 
the one I said should be your own den, with the win- 
dow all festooned with creepers and looking out on 
the garden — well .? ” 

“ Take my advice,” he said, ‘‘and don’t make any 
plans till you see it. And as for plans, these furnish- 
ing fellows do all that — they don’t care to be bothered 
with plans.” 

‘ ‘ They will have to carry out ours, though. I shall 
love settling how it is all to be — it will be such fun.” 

“You wouldn’t call it fun if you knew what it was 
like, I can tell you.” 

“But I do know. Mother and I rearranged most 
of the rooms at home only last year — so you see I have 
some experience. And what experience zscsxyou have 
had, if you please .? ” 

Ella had a mental vision as she spoke of the house 
in Dawson Place when George lived with his mother 
and sisters — a house in which furniture and every- 
thing else were commonplace and bourgeois to the 
last degree, and where nothing could have been 
altered since his boyhood ; indeed she had often 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


79 


secretly pitied him for having to live in such sur- 
roundings, and admired the filial patience that had 
made him endure them so long. 

‘ ‘ Tve had my share, Ella, and I should be very 
sorry for you to have all the worry and bother Eve 
been through over it ! ” 

“ But when, George How? I don’t understand.” 
“Ah, that’s my secret ! ” he said provokingly ; “and 
you know, Ella, if we began furnishing now, it would 
take no end of a time, with all these wonderful plans 
of yours, and — and I couldn’t stand having to wait 
till next November for you — I couldn’t do it ! ” 

“Mother thinks the marriage need not be put off 
now, ’’said Ella simply, “and we shall have six weeks 
till then ; the house can be quite ready for us by the 
time we want it. ” 

“Six weeks!” he said impatiently, “what’s six 
weeks ? You’ve no idea what these chaps are, Ella I 
And then there are all your own things to get, and 
they would take up most of your time. No, we 
should have had to put it off, whatever you may say. 
And that would mean another separation— for, of 
course, you would go away in August, and I should 
have to stay in town ; the office wouldn’t give me my 
fortnight twice over — honeymoon or no honeymoon I ” 
Ella looked completely puzzled. “But what are 
you trying to prove now^ George ? ” 

“I was only showing you that, even though you 
have come back earlier, we couldn’t possibly have got 
things ready in time, if I hadn’t — but here he 
stopped. “No, I want that to be a surprise for you, 
Ella; you’ll see presently,” he added. 


8o 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


Ella’s delicate eyebrows contracted. “I like to be 
prepared for my surprises, please, George. Tell me 
now.” 

They had turned up one of the quiet streets leading 
to the hill. They were so near the house that George 
thought he might abandon further mystery, not to 
mention that he was only too anxious to reveal his 
secret. 

“Well, then, Ella, if you must have it,” he said 
triumphantly, ‘ ‘ the house is very nearly ready now — 
what do you think of that ? ” 

“ Do you mean that — that it is furnished, George? ” 

“Papered, painted, decorated, furnished — every- 
thing, from top to bottom ! I thought that would 
surprise you, Ella ! ” 

“I think,” she answered slowly, “you might have 
told me you were doing it.” 

“What ! before it was all done ? That would have 
spoilt it all, dear. I should have written, though, if 
you hadn’t been coming home so soon. And now 
it’s finished I must say it looks uncommonly jolly. 
I’m sure you’ll be pleased with it — it looks quite a 
different place.” 

She tried to smile ; “And did you do it all yourself, 
George ? ” 

“Well, no — not exactly. I flatter myself I know 
how to see that the work’s properly done, and all 
that ; but there are some things I don’t pretend to be 
much of a hand at, so I got certain ladies to give me 
some wrinkles.” 

Ella felt relieved. She was disappointed, it is true 
— hurt, even, at having been deprived of aiiy voice in 


A MATTER OF TASTE, 


8l 


the matter. She had been looking forward so much 
to carrying out her pet schemes, to enjoying her 
friends’ admiration of the wonders wrought by her 
artistic invention. And she had never thought of 
George, somehow, as likely to have any strikingly 
original ideas on the subject of decoration, although 
she liked him none the less for that. 

But it was something that he had had the good 
sense to take her mother and Flossie into his confi- 
dence; she knew she could trust them to preserve 
him from any serious mistakes. 

“You see,” said George, half apologetically, “I 
would ever so much rather have waited till you came 
back, only I couldn’t tell when that would be. I 
really couldn’t help myself. You’re sure you don’t 
mind about it.? If you only knew how I worked 
over it, rushing about from one place to another, as 
soon as I could get away from the office, picking up 
bits of furniture here and there, standing over those 
beggars of painters and keeping ’em at it, and work- 
ing out estimates and seeing foremen and managers 
and all kinds of chaps ! I used to get home dead- 
tired of an evening ; but I didn’t mind that : I felt it 
was all bringing you nearer to me, darling, and that 
made everything a pleasure ! ” 

There was such honest affection in his look and 
voice ; he had so evidently intended to please her, 
and had been in such manifest dread of any further 
separation from her, that she was completely dis- 
armed. 

“Dear George,” she said gently, “I am so sorry 
you took all the trouble on yourself; it was very 


82 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


very good of you to care so much, and I know I shall 
be delighted with the house.” 

“ Well,” said George, “Tm not much afraid about 
that, because I expect our tastes are pretty much the 
same in most things. ” 

They were by this time at the house, and George, 
after a little fumbling with his as yet unfamiliar latch- 
key, threw open the door with a flourish and said, 
“There you are, little woman! Walk in and you'll 
see what you shall see 1 ” 

No sooner was Ella inside the hall than her heart 
sank: “Looks neat and nice, doesn’t it?” said 
George cheerfully. “ You’d almost take that paper 
for real marble, wouldn’t you ? See how well they’ve 
done those veins. I like this yellowish colour better 
than green, don’t you ? It looks so cool in summer. 
That’s a good strong hall-lamp — not what you call 
high art, exactly — but gives a rattling good light, and 
that’s the main thing. Here, I’ll light it up for you — 
confound it ! they haven’t turned the gas on yet. 
However, there’s too much sunshine for it to show 
much, if they had. This linoleum is a capital thing : 
you might scrub as long as you liked and you’d never 
get /ha/ pattern out 1 ” 

“ No,” Ella agreed, with a tragic little smile, “it — 
it looks as if it would last. ” 

“ Last 1 1 should just think so ! And here’s a hat-stand 
— you could almost swear it was carved wood of 
some sort, but it’s only cast-iron painted ; indestructi- 
ble, you see ; they told me that was the latest dodge 
— wonderful how cheaply they turn them out, isn’t 
it?” 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


83 


I thought you said you were helped?” 

‘‘Oh, I didn’t want any help here — this is only 
the passage, you know ! ” 

Yes, it was only the passage — and yet she had been 
picturing such a charming entrance, with a draped 
arch, a graceful lamp, a fresh, bright paper, a small 
buffet of genuine old oak, and so on. She suppressed 
a sigh as she passed on ; after all, so long as the 
rooms themselves were all right, it did not so very 
much matter, and she knew that her mother’s taste 
could be trusted. 

But on the threshold of the dining-room she 
stopped aghast. The walls had been distempered a 
particularly hideous drab ; the curtains were mus- 
tard yellow ; the carpet was a dull brown ; the mot- 
tled marble mantelpiece, for which she had been in- 
tending to substitute one in walnut wood with tiles, 
still shone in slabs of petrified brown ; there was a 
huge mahogany sideboard of a kind she had only 
seen in old-fashioned hotels. 

“Comfortable, eh? ’’remarked George. “Lots of 
wear in those curtains ! ” 

Unhappily there was, as Ella was only too well 
aware. “You did /hts room yourself too, then, 
George?” she managed to say, without betraying 
herself by her voice. 

“Yes, I chose everything here. You see, Ella, we 
shall only use this room for meals.” 

“Only for meals, yes, ’’she acquiesced with a shud- 
der ; “but — George, surely you said mother had 
helped you with the rooms ? ” 

‘ ‘ What ! your mother ? No, Ella ; her notions are 


A MATTER OF TASTE, 


84 

rather too grand for me. It was Jessie and Carrie I 
meant. Just come and see what they’ve made of my 
den.” 

Ella followed. The window — which had com- 
manded such a cheerful outlook into one of the pretty 
gardens, with a pink thorn, a laburnum-tree or two, 
and some sycamores which still flourish fresh and 
fair on Campden Hill — was obscured now by some 
detestable contrivance in transparent paper imitating 
stained glass. 

“That was the girls’ notion,” said George, follow- 
ing the direction of her eyes ; ‘ ‘ they fixed it all them- 
selves — it was their present to me. Pretty of them to 
think of it, wasn’t it ? I call it an immense improve- 
ment, and, you see, it’s stuck on with some patent 
cement varnish, so it can’t rub off. You get the effect 
better if you stand here — now, see how well the colours 
come out in the sun ! ” 

If only they would come out ! But what could she 
do but stand and admire hypocritically ? Her eyes, in 
spite of herself, seemed drawn to that bright-hued 
sham intersected by black lines intended to represent 
leading ; of the room itself she only saw vaguely that 
it was not unworthy of the window. 

“Nothing to what they’ve done with the drawing- 
room ! ” said innocent George, beaming; “come 
along, darling, you’ll scarcely know the place.” 

And Ella, reduced to a condition of stony stupor, 
followed to the drawing-room. She did not know the 
place, indeed. It was a quaintly-shaped, irregular 
room, with French windows opening upon the garden 
on one side and a deep bow- window on another ; when 


A MATTER OF TASTE, 


85 

she had last seen it, the walls were covered with a 
paper so pleasing in tone and design that she had 
almost decided to retain it. That paper was gone, 
and in its place a gaudy semi-Chinese pattern of 
unknown birds, flying and perching on sprawling 
branches laden with impossible flowers. And then 
the furniture — the “elegant drawing-room suite ” in 
brilliant plush and shiny satin, the cheap cabinets, 
and the ready-made black and gilt overmantel, with 
its panels of swans, hawthorn-blossom, and land- 
scapes sketchily daubed on dead gold — surely it had 
all been transferred bodily from the stage of some 
carelessly mounted farcical comedy ! 

Ella’s horrified gaze gradually took in other 
features — the china monkeys swinging on cords, the 
porcelain parrots hanging in great brass rings, huge 
misshapen terra-cotta jars and pots, dead grass in 
bloated drain-pipes, tambourines, beribboned and 
painted with kittens and robins, enormous wooden 
sabots, gilded Japanese fans, a woolly white rug and 
a bright Kidderminster carpet. 

“ Oh, George !” burst involuntarily from her lips. 

“ I knew you'd be pleased ! " he said complacently ; 
“ but I mustn't take all the credit to myself. It was 
like this, you see : I felt all right enough about the 
other rooms, but the drawing-room — that's j^our room, 
and I was awfully afraid of not having it exactly as it 
ought to be. So I went to the girls, and I said, ^ Fbu 
know all about these things — just make it what you 
think Ella will like, and then we can't go wrong ! ' 
We had that Grosvenor Gallery paper down first of 
^11. ^ Choose something bright and cheerful, ' I said, 


86 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


and I don’t think they’ve chosen badly. Then the 
pottery and china and all that — those are the girls 
presents to you, with their best love.” 

“It — it’s very good of them,” said poor Ella, on 
the verge of tears. 

“ Oh, they think a lot of you ! They were rather 
nervous about doing anything at first, for fear you 
mightn’t like it; but I told them they needn’t be 
afraid. ‘What I like, Ella will like,’ I said ; and, I 
must say, no one could wish to see a prettier drawing- 
room then they’ve turned it into — they’ve a good deal 
of taste, those two girls.” 

Ella stood there in a kind of dreary dream. What 
had happened to the world since she came into this 
house.? What was this change to her.? She was 
afraid to speak, lest the intense rebellious anger she 
felt should gain the mastery. Was it she that had 
these wicked thoughts of George — poor, kind, unsus- 
pecting, loving George ? She felt a little faint, for the 
windows were closed and the room stuffy with the 
odour of the new furniture and the atmosphere of the 
workshop ; everything here seemed to her common- 
place and repulsive. 

“ How about those plans of yours now, Ella, eh ?” 
cried George. 

This was too much ; her overtried patience broke 
down. “George!” she cried impulsively, and her 
voice sounded hoarse and strange to her own ear ; 

“ George ! I must speak — I must tell you^ ^1 ” and 

then she checked herself. She must keep command 
of herself, or she could not, without utter loss of dig- 
nity, find the words that were to sting him into a sense 


A MATTE OF TASTE. 


87 

of what he had done and allowed to be done. Before 
she could go on, George had drawn her to him, and 
was patting her shoulder tenderly. “I know, dear 
little girl,” he said, “ I know ; don’t try to tell me any- 
thing. I’m so awfully glad you’re pleased ; but all 
the money and pains in the world wouldn’t make the 
place good enough for my Ella ! ” 

She released herself with a little cry of impotent 
despair. How could she say the sharp, cruel speeches 
that were struggling to reach her tongue now.? It 
was no use; she was a coward ; she simply had not 
the courage to undeceive him here, on the very first 
day of their reunion too ! 

“You haven’t been upstairs yet,” said George, 
dropping sentiment abruptly ; “shall we go up.? ” 
Ella assented submissively, much as even this cost 
her ; but it was better, she reflected, to get it over and 
know the very worst. However, she was spared this 
ordeal for the present ; as they returned to the hall, 
they found themselves suddenly face to face with a 
dingy man, whose face was surrounded by a fringe of 
black whiskers and crowned by a shock of fleecy hair. 

' ‘ Who on earth are you ? ” demanded George, as 
the man rose from the kitchen-stairs. 

“No offence, sir and lady! Peagrum, that’s mjy 
name, fust shop round the corner as you go into 
Silver Street, plumber and sanitry henginefer, gas- 
fittin’ and hartistic decorating, bell-’anging in all its 
branches. I received instructions from Mr. Jones 
that I was to look into a little matter o’ leakage in 
the back-kitchen sink ; also to see what taps, if hany, 
required seein’ to, and gen’ally to put things straight 


88 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


like. So I come round, ’aving the keys, jest to cast a 
heye over them, as I may term it, preliminary to com- 
mencing work in the course of a week or so, as soon 
as I’m at libity to attend to it pussonally.’" 

‘ ‘ Oh, the landlord sent you ? All right, then. ” 

“Correct, sir,” said the plumber affably. “While 
Tve been ’ere, I took the freedom of going all over 
this little ’ouse, and a nice cosy little ’ouse you’ve 
made of it, for such a nouse as it is I You’ve done it 
up very tysty — very tysty you’ve done this little ’ouse 
up; and I’ve some claim to speak, seein’ as how 
I’ve had the decoration throughout of a many ’ouses 
in my time, likewise mansions. You ain’t been too 
ambitious, which is the error most parties falls into 
with small ’ouses. Now the parties as ’ad the place 
before you, — by the name o’ Rummies — well, I dare- 
say they satisfied theirselves, but the ’ouse never 
looked right — not to my taste, it didn’t I ” 

‘ ‘ George, get rid of this person ! ” said Ella rapidly 
underher breath, in French. Unfortunately, George’s 
acquaintance with that tongue was about on a par 
with the plumber’s, and he remained passive. 

The plumber now proceeded to put down his me- 
chanic’s straw-bag upon the hall-table, which he did 
with great care, as if it were of priceless stuff and 
contained fragile articles ; having done this, he posed 
himself with one elbow resting on the post at the 
foot of the staircase, like a grimy statue of Shake- 
speare. “Ah,” he said, shaking his touzled head, 
“ this ain’t the fust time I’ve been ’ere in my puffes- 
sional capacity, not by a long way. Not by a long 
way, it ain’t. Mr. Rummies, him as I mentioned to 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


89 

you afore, and a nice pleasant-spoken gentleman he 
was, too — in the tea trade — Mr. Rummies, he alius 
sent round for me whenever there was hany odd 
jobs as wanted doin’, and in course I was alius 
pleased to get ’em, be they hodd or hotherwise. ” 

“Er — exactly,” said George, as soon as he could 
put in a word ; *‘but you see this lady and I ” 

The plumber, however, did not abandon his posi- 
tion, and seemed determined that they should hear 
him : 

“I know, sir — I see how things were with you 
with ’arf a glance ; but afore we go any further, it’s 
right you should know ’00 I am and all about me. 
Jest ’ear what I’m goin’ to tell you, for it’s somethink 
out of the common way, though gospel-truth. It’s a 
melinkly reflection for a man in my station of life, 
but” — and here he lowered his voice to a solemn 
pitch — ‘^I’ve never set foot inside of this ’ere ’ouse 
without somethink ’appens more or less immejit. 
Ah, it s true, though. Seems almost like as if I 
brought a fatality in along o’ me. Don’t you inter- 
rupt ; you wait till I’m done, and see if I’m talking 
at random or without facks to support me. Well, 
fust time as ever I was sent for ’ere was in regard to 
drains, as they couldn’t flush satisfactory. I did my 
work and come away. Not three weeks arter. Miss 
Rummies, the heldest gell, was took ill with typhoid. 
Never the same young lady again — nor yet she never 
won’t be neither, not if she lives to a nundered. 
‘Nothing very hodd about that says you. Wait a 
bit. Next time, it was the kitching copper as had got 
all furred up like. I tinkered that up to rights, and 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


90 

come away. Well, afore I’d even made out my 
account, that identical copper blew up and scalded 
the cook dreadful ! ‘ Coppers will play these games, ’ 

you sez. All right then ; but you let me finish. 
Third time there was a flaw in one of the gas-brack- 
ets in the spare room. I soddered it up and I come 
away. Soon arterwards, a day or two as it might be, 
Mrs. Rummies ’ad ’er mar a-stayin’ with her, and the 
old lady slep in that very room, and was laid up 
weeks! ‘Gurus,’ says I, when I come to ’ear of it, 
‘vefy curus I ’ and it set me a-thinkin’. Last time 
but one — ’ere, lemme see — that was a bell-’anging 
job, I think — no. I’m wrong, it was drains agen, so it 
were — drains it was agen. And the nexiihmg I ’eard 
was that Mrs. Rummies was a-layin’ at death’s door 
with the difithery I The last time — ah, I recklect 
well, I was called in to see if somethink wasn’t 
wrong with the ballcock in the top cistin. I see there 
was somethink, and I come away as usual. That 
day week, old Mr. Rummies was took with a fit on 
the floor in the back droring-room, which broke up 
the ’ouse 1 4 

“Now, I think, as fair-minded and unprejudiced 
parties, you’ll agree with me that there was some- 
thing more’n hordinary coinside-ency in all that. I 
declare to you 1 ” avowed the plumber, with a gloomy 
relish and a candour that was possibly begotten of 
beer, “ I declare to you there’s times when I do hon- 
estly believe as I carry a curse along with me when- 
ever I visits this ’ere partickler ’ouse ! and, though 
it’s agen my own hinterests, I deem it on’y my dooty 
as a honest man, to mention it ! ” 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


91 


Under any other circumstances, the plumber’s 
compliments on her taste and his lugubrious assump- 
tion of character of the Destroying Angel would have 
sorely tried, if not completely upset, Ella’s gravity ; 
as it was, she was too wretched to have more than a 
passing and quite unappreciative sense of his absur- 
dity. George, having the quality of mind which 
makes jokes more readily than sees them, took him 
quite seriously. 

‘‘Well,” he answered solemnly, “I hope you 
won’t bring us bad luck, at all events ! ” 

“ / ’ope so, sir. I’m sure. I ’ope so. It will not be 
by any desire on my part, more partickler when you’re 
just settin’ up ’ousekeepin’ with your good lady ’ere. 
But there’s no tollin’ in these matters. That’s where 
it is you see — there’s no tollin’. And arter all my ex- 
perence, with the best intentions in the world, I can’t 
go and guarantee to you as nothink won’t come of it. 
I wish I could, but as a honest man I can’t. If it’s 
to be,” moralised this fatalistic plumber, “it is to be, 
and that’s all about it, and no hefforts on my part or 
yours won’t make hany difference, will they, sir ? ” 
“Well, well,” said George, plainly ill at ease, 
“that will do, my friend. Now, Ella, what do you 
say — shall we go upstairs ? ” 

“Not now,” she gasped, “let us go away.— Oh, 
George, take me outside, please ! ” 

“ Dash that confounded fool of a plumber ! ” said 
George irritably, when they were in the street again ; 
“wonder if he thinks I’m going to employ him after 

that ! Not that it isn’t all bosh, of course Why, 

Ella, you’re not tired, are you? ” 


92 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


‘‘I — I think I am a little — do you mind if we drive 
home ? ” 

Ella was very silent during their short drive. 
When they reached Linden Gardens she said, I 
think we must say good-bye here, George. I feel as 
if I were going to have a headache.” 

“You poor little girl ! ” he said, looking rather crest- 
fallen, for he had been counting upon going in and 
being invited to remain for dinner, “it's been rather 
too much for you, going over the house and all that 
— or was it that beastly plumber with his rigmaroles ? ” 
“It wasn't the plumber,” she said hurriedly, as the 
door was opened, ‘ ‘ and — good-bye, George. ” 

“ How easily girls do get knocked up ! ” thought 
George, as he walked homeward, “a little pleasant 
excitement like this and she seems quite upset. She 
was delighted with the house, though, that's one 
blessing, and I mustn't forget to tell the girls how 
touched she was by their presents. What a darling 
she is, and how happy we shall be together 1 ” 


A MATTER OF TASTE, 


93 


PART 11. 

Once safely at home, Ella hastened upstairs to her 
own room, where, if the truth must be told, she em- 
ployed the half-hour before dinner in unintermittent 
sobbing, into which temper largely entered. ‘ ‘ He has 
spoilt it all for me ! How could he — oh, how could 
he ? '' ran the burden of her moan. At the dinner- 
table, though pale and silent, she had recovered 
composure. 

‘ ‘ A pleasant walk, Ella ? ” inquired her mother, 
with rather formal interest. 

“Yes, very,” replied Ella, trusting she would not 
be questioned further. 

“ I believe I know where you went!” cried in- 
discreet Flossie. “You went to look at your new 
home — now, didn't you t Ah, I thought so 1 I sup- 
pose you have quite made up your minds how you 
mean to do the rooms ? ” 

“Quite.” 

“We might go round to all the best places to- 
morrow,” said Mrs. Hylton, “and see some papers 
and hangings — there were some lovely patterns in 
Blank's windows the other day.” 

“And, Ella,” added Flossie, “Eve been out with 
Andrews after school several times, to Tottenham 
Court Road, and Wardour Street, and Oxford Street — 
oh, everywhere, hunting up old furniture, and I can 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


94 

show you where they have some beautiful things — 
not shams, but really good ! ’’ 

“You know, Ella,” said Mrs. Hylton, observing 
that she did not answer, ‘ ‘ I want you to have a 
pretty house, and you and George must order exactly 
what you like ; but I think you will find I may be 
some help to you in choosing.” 

“Thank you, mother,” said Ella, without any ani- 
mation ; “ I — I don’t think we shall want much.” 

‘^‘You will want all that young people in your 
position do want, I suppose,” said Mrs. Hylton, a 
little impatiently; “and of course you understand 
that the bills are to be my affair.” 

“Thank you, mother,” murmured Ella again. She 
didn’t feel able to tell them just yet how this had all 
been forestalled ; she felt that she would infallibly 
break down if she tried. 

“ You seem a little overdone to-night, my dear,” 
said her mother frigidly ; she was naturally hurt at 
the very uneffusive way in which her good offices 
had been met. 

“ I have such a dreadful headache,” pleaded Ella. 
“I — I think I overtired myself this afternoon.” 

“Then you are very foolish, after travelling all 
yesterday, as you did. I don’t wonder that George 
was ashamed to come in. You had better go to bed 
early, and I will send Andrews in to you with some 
of my sleeping mixture. ” 

Ella was glad enough to obey, though the draught 
took some time to operate ; she felt as if no happiness 
or peace of mind were possible for her till George had 
been persuaded to undo his work. 


A MATTER OF TASTE, 


95 

Surely he could not refuse when he knew that her 
mother was prepared to do everything for them at her 
own expense ! 

And here it began to dawn upon her what this 
would entail ! George’s words came back to her as 
if she heard them actually spoken. Did he not say 
that the house had been furnished out of his savings ? 

What was she asking him to do To dismantle it 
entirely ; to humiliate himself by going round to 
all the people he had dealt with, asking them as a 
favour to take back their goods, or else he must sell 
them as best he could for a fraction of their cost. 
Who was to refund him all he had so uselessly spent ? 
Could she ask her mother to do so ? Would he even 
consent to such an arrangement if it was proposed ? 

Then his sisters — how could she avoid offending 
them irreparably, perhaps involving George in a quar- 
rel with his family, if she were to carry her point .? 

As she realised, for the first time, the inevitable con- 
sequences of success, she asked herself in despair 
what she ought to do — where her plain duty lay? 

Did she love George — or was it all delusion, and 
was he less to her than mere superfluities, the fringe 
of life ? 

She did love him, in spite of any passing disloyalty 
of thought. She felt his sterling worth and goodness, 
even his weaknesses had something lovable in them 
for her. 

And he had been planning, ‘spending, working all 
this time to give her pleasure, and this was his re- 
ward ! She had been within an ace of letting him see 
the cruel ingratitude that was in her heart! “What 


A MA TTER OF TASTE, 


96 

a selfish wretch I have been ! ” she thought; ‘‘but 
I won’t be — no, I won’t ! George shall noi be 
snubbed, hurt, estranged from his family on my 
account ! ” 

No, she would suffer — she alone — and in silence. 
Never by a word would she betray to him the pain 
his well-intentioned action cost her. Not even to her 
mother and Flossie would she permit herself to utter 
the least complaint, lest they should insist upon open- 
ing George’s eyes ! 

So, having arrived at this heroic resolve, in which 
she found a touch of the sublime that almost con- 
soled her, the tears dried on her cheeks and Ella fell 
asleep at last. 

Some readers, no doubt — though possibly few of 
our heroine’s sex — will smile scornfully at this crum- 
pled rose-leaf agony, this tempest in a Dresden tea- 
cup ; and the writer is not concerned to deny that the 
situation has its ludicrous side. 

But, for a girl brought up as Ella Hylton had been, 
in an artistic milieu, her eye insensibly trained to love 
all that was beautiful in colour and form, to be al- 
most morbidly sensitive to ugliness and vulgarity — it 
was a very real and bitter struggle, a hard-won vic- 
tory to come to such a decision as she formed. Life, 
Heaven knows, contains worse trials and deeper 
tragedies than this ; but at least Ella’s happy life had 
as yet known no harder. 

And, so far, she must be given the credit of having 
conquered. 

Resolution is, no doubt, half the battle. Unfortu- 
nately, Ella’s resolution, though she hardly perceived 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


97 

this at present, could not be affected by one isolated 
and final act, but by a long chain of daily and hourly 
forbearances, the first break in which would undo all 
that had gone before. 

How she bore the test we are going to see. 

She woke the next morning to a sense that her life 
had somehow lost its savour ; the exaltation of her 
resolve overnight had gone off and left her spirits flat 
and dead ; but she came down, nevertheless, deter- 
mined to be staunch and true to George under all 
provocations. 

“ Have you and George decided when you would 
like your wedding to be .? ” asked her mother, after 
breakfast, ‘ ‘ because we ought to have the invitations 
printed very soon.” 

“Not yet,” faltered Ella, and the words might have 
passed either as an answer or an appeal. 

‘ ‘ I think it should be some time before the end of 
next month, or people will be going out of town. ” 

“I suppose so,” was the reply, so listlessly given 
that Mrs. Hylton glanced keenly at her daughter. 

‘ ‘ What do you feel about it yourself, Ella ? ” 

“ I ? oh, I — Eve no feeling. Perhaps, if we waited 
— no, it doesn’t matter — let it be when you and 
George wish, mother, please ! ” 

Mrs. Hylton gave a sharp, annoyed little laugh : 
“Really, my dear, if you can’t get up any more 
interest in it than that, I think it would certainly be 
wiser to wait ! ” 

It was more than indifference that Ella felt — a wild 
aversion to beginning the new life that but lately had 
seemed so mysteriously sweet and strange ; she was 
7 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


98 

frightened by it, ashamed of it, but she could not help 
herself. She made no answer, nor did Mrs. Hylton 
again refer to the subject. 

But Ella’s worst tribulations had yet to come. 
That afternoon, as she and her mother and Flossie 
were sitting in the drawing-room, ‘ ‘ Mrs. and the Miss 
Chapmans ” were announced. Evidently they had 
deemed it incumbent on them to pay a state visit as 
soon as possible after Ella’s return. 

Ella returned their effusive greetings as dutifully as 
she could. She had never succeeded in cultivating a 
very lively affection for them ; to-day she found them 
barely endurable. 

Mrs. Chapman was a stout, dewlapped old lady, 
with dull eyes and pachydermatous folds in her face. 
She had a husky voice and a funereal manner. Jessie, 
her eldest daughter, was not altogether uncomely in 
a commonplace way : she was dark-haired, high- 
coloured, loud-voiced — generally sprightly and voluble 
and overpowering ; she was in such a hurry to speak 
that her words tripped one another up, and she had a 
meaningless and, to Ella, highly irritating little laugh. 

Carrie was plain and colourless, content to admire 
and echo her sister. 

After some conversation on Ella’s Continental ex- 
periences, Jessie suddenly, as Ella’s uneasy instinct 
foresaw, turned to Mrs. Hylton. “Of course Ella 
told you what a surprise she had at Campden Hill 
yesterday ? Weren’t you electrified ? ” 

“No doubt I should have been,” said Mrs. Hylton, 
who detested Jessie, “only Ella did not think fit to 
mention it.” 


A MA TTER OF TASTE. 


99 

“ Oh, I wonder at that ! I hope I wasn’t going to 
betray the secrets of the prison-house ? ” Jessie was 
fond of using stock phrases to give lightness and 
sparkle to her conversation. ‘ ‘ Ella, the idea of your 
keeping it all to yourself, you sly puss ! But tell me — 
would you ever have believed Tumps ” — his sisters 
called George “ Tumps ” — “ could be capable of such 
independent behaviour ? ” 

‘‘ No,” said Ella, ‘‘I — indeed I never should 1 ” 

“Ha, ha! nor should we! You would have 
screamed to see him fussing about — wasn’t he killing 
over it, Carrie ? ” 

“Oh, he was, Jessie ! ” 

“ My son,” explained Mrs. Chapman to Mrs. Hylton, 
“is so wonderfully energetic and practical. I have 
never known him fail to carry through anything he 
has once undertaken — he inherits that from his poor 
dear father.” 

“ I don’t quite gather what your brother George has 
been doing, even now ? ” said Mrs. Hylton to Jessie. 

“ Oh, but my lips are sealed. Wild horses sha’n’t 
drag any more from me ! Don’t be afraid, Ella, I 
won’t spoil sport ! ” 

“There is no sport to spoil,” said Ella. “Mother, 
it is only that — that George has furnished the house 
while I have been away.” 

“Really.?” said Mrs. Hylton politely; “that fs 
energetic of him, indeed !” 

“ Poor dear Tumps came home so proud of your 
approval,” said Jessie to Ella, “ and we were awfully 
relieved to find you didn’t think we’d made the house 
quite too dreadful — weren’t we, Carrie .? ” 


ICO 


A MATTE OF TASTE, 


“Yes, indeed, Jessie.” 

“Of course,” observed the latter young lady, “ it's 
always so hard to hit upon another person’s taste 
exactly — especially in furnishing.” 

“ Impossible, I should have thought,” from Mrs. 
Hylton. 

‘ ‘ I hope Ella is of a different opinion — what do,;'^^ 
say, dearest?” 

“Oh,” cried Ella hastily, with splendid mendacity, 
“I — I liked it all very much, and — and it was so 
much too kind of you and Carrie. Eve never thanked 
you for — for all the things you gave me ! ” 

“Oh, those! they ain’t worth thanking for — just a 
few little artistic odds and ends. They set off a room, 
you know — give it a finish. ” 

“ Young people nowadays,” croaked old Mrs. Chap- 
man lugubriously in Mrs. Hylton’s courteously in- 
clined ear, “think so much of luxury and ornament 
I’m sure when I married my dear husband, we 

“Now, mater dear, you really mustn’t!” inter- 
rupted the irrepressible Jessie; “Mrs. Hylton is on 
our side, you know. She likes pretty things about her 
— don’t you, Mrs. Hylton? And, talking of that, 
Ella, I hope you thought our glyco-vitrine decoration 
a success ? We were perfectly surprised ourselves to 
see how well it came out ! Just transparent coloured 
paper, Mrs. Hylton, and you cut it into sheets, and 
gum it on the window-panes, and really, unless you 
were told or came quite close, you would declare it 
was real stained glass ! You ought to try some of it 
on your windows, Mrs. Hylton. I’ll tell you where 
you can get it — you go down 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


lOI 


‘‘I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Hylton, stiffly ; “ if I cannot have the reality, I 
prefer to do without even the best imitations. ” 

“Why, you’re deserting us, I declare ! Ella, you 
must take her to see the window, and then perhaps 
she will change her opinion.” 

“I always tell my girls,” said Mrs. Chaprhan, in 
her woolly voice, “when I am dead and gone they 
can make any alterations they please, but whil6 I am 
spared to them I like everything about the house to 
be kept exactly as it was in their poor father’s life- 
time.” 

Isn't she a dear conservative old mummy ? ” said 
Jessie to Ella in an audible aside. ‘ ‘ Why, I do believe 
she won’t see anything to admire in your little house 
— at least, if she does, the dear old lady, she’d sooner 
die than admit it ! ” 

The Chapmans went at last, and before they were 
out of the house Mrs. Hylton, with an effort to seem 
unconcerned, said : ‘ And so, Ella, you and George 
have done without my help ? Of course you know 
your own affairs best ; still, I should have thought — 
I should certainly have thought — that I might have 
been of some assistance to you — if only in pecu- 
niary matters.” 

“ George preferred that you should not be troubled,” 
stammered Ella. 

“ I am not blaming him. I respect him for wish- 
ing to be independent. I own to being a little sur- 
prised that you should not have told me of this 
before, though, Ella. But for that chattering girl, I 
presume I should have been left to discover it for 


102 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


myself. I wonder you cannot bring yourself to be a 
little more open with your mother, my dear.” 

“Oh, mother!” cried Ella in despair, “ indeed I 
was going to tell you— only, I did not know myself 

till yesterday. At least, that is ” she broke off 

lamely, fearing to reflect on George. 

“I find it hard to believe that George would act 
without consulting you in any way. It is strange 
enough that he should have undertaken to furnish 
the house in your absence.” 

“ But if I couldn’t be there 1” pleaded Ella — “and 
I couldn’t.” 

“Naturally, as you were on the Continent, you 
couldn’t be on Campden Hill at the same time ; you 
need not be absurd, Ella. But what I want to know 
is this — have you had a voice in the matter, or have 
you not.?” 

“N — not much,” confessed Ella, hanging her 
head. 

“ So I suspected, and I think George ought to be 
ashamed of himself I never heard of such a thing, 
and I shall make a point of seeing the house and 
satisfying myself that it is fit for a daughter of mine 
to inhabit. ” 

“ Mother I ’’exclaimed Ella, springing up excitedly, 
“ you don’t understand. Why should you choose to 
suppose that the house is not pretty ? It is not done 
^c&you would do it, because poor George hadn’t much 
money to spend ; but if I am satisfied, why should 
you come between us .? And I am satisfied — quite, 
quite satisfied ; he has done it all beautifully, and I 
will not have a single thing altered I After all, it is his 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


103 

house — our house — and nobody else has any right to 
interfere — not even you, mother ! ” 

Mrs. Hylton shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, my 
dear, if that is the way you think proper to speak to 
me, it is time to change the subject. Pray understand 
that I shall not dream of interfering. I am very glad 
that you are so satisfied.” And by-and-by she left 
the room majestically. 

When she had gone, Flossie, who had been listening 
open-eyed to all that had taken place, came and stood 
in front of Ella’s chair. 

“Ella, tell me,” she said, “has George really fur- 
nished the house exactly as you like — really now ? ” 

‘ ‘ Haven’t I said so, Flossie ? Why should you 
doubt it ? ” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I don’t know ; I was wondering, that was 
all ! ” 

“ Really! ” cried Ella angrily, “ any one would think 
poor George was a sort of barbarian, who couldn’t 
be expected to know anything, or trusted to do any- 
thing I ” 

‘ ‘ Fm sure I never said so, Ella. But how clever 
of him to choose just the right things I And,' Ella, 
do all the colours and things go well together.? I 
always thought most men didn’t notice much about 
all that. And are the new mantelpieces pretty ? Oh, 
and where did he go for the papers and the carpets ? ” 

“ Flossie, I wish you wouldn’t tease so. Can’t you 
see I have a headache .? I can’t answer so many 
questions, and I won’t 1 Once for all, everything is 
just what I like. Do you understand, or shall I tell 
you again ? — just, jusl what I like ! ’’ 


104 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


*‘0h, all right,” returned Flossie, with exasperating 
good-humour; “then there’s nothing to lose your 
temper about, darling, is there ? ” 

And this was all that Ella had gained by her loyalty 
to George so far. 

It was the morning after the Chapmans’ visit. 
Ella had seen her mother and Flossie preparing to 
go out, but, owing to the friction between them, they 
neither invited her to accompany them, nor did she 
venture to ask where they were going. At luncheon, 
however, the unhappy girl divined from the expres- 
sion of their faces how they had employed the fore- 
noon. They had been inspecting the Campden Hill 
house ! Her mother’s handsome face wore a look of 
frozen contempt. Imagine a strict Quaker’s feelings 
on seeing his son with a pair of black eyes — a 
Socialist’s at finding a peerage under his daughter’s 
pillow — a Positivist’s whose children have all joined 
the Salvation Army, and even then but a faint idea 
will be reached of Mrs. Hylton’s utter dismay and 
disgust. 

Flossie, though angry, took a different view of 
Ella’s share in the business ; she knew her better than 
her mother did, and consequently refused to believe 
that she was a Philistine at heart. It was her absurd 
infatuation for George that made her see with his eyes 
and bow down before the hideous household gods he 
had chosen to erect. On such weakness Flossie had 
no mercy. 

“ Well, Ella, dear,” she began, “ mother and I have 
seen your house. George has quite surpassed our 
wildest expectations. Accept my compliments I ” 


A MATTE OF TASTE. 


105 

‘‘Flossie,” said her mother severely, “will you 
kindly choose some other topic? I really feel too 
seriously annoyed about all this to bear to hear it 
spoken of just yet I think you shall come with me 
to the Amberleys’ garden-party this afternoon, and 
not Ella, as we are dining out this evening. You had 
better stay at home and rest, Ella. ” 

In this, and countless other ways, was Ella made 
to feel that she was in disgrace. 

Nor did Flossie spare her sister when they were 
alone. “Poor dear mother!” she said, “I quite 
thought that house would have broken her heart — oh. 
Pm not saying a word against it, Ella, I Vnowyou 
like it, and I’m sure it looks very comfortable — every- 
thing so sensible and useful, and the kitchen really 
charming ; mother and I liked it best of all the rooms. 
Such a horrid man, let us in ; he was at work there, 
and he would follow us all about, and tell mother his 
entire history. I don’t think he could have been 
quite sober, he would insist on turning all the taps 
on everywhere. I suppose, Ella, it’s ever so much 
cheaper to furnish as you and George have done ; 
that’s the worst of pretty things, they do cost such a 
lot ! I’d no idea you were so practical, though, ’’and 
so on. 

On Sunday George came to luncheon. He was 
delighted to hear from Flossie that they had been to 
the house, and gave a boisterously high-spirited ac- 
count of his labours. “ It was a grind,” he informed 
them, “and, as for those painter-fellows, I began to 
think they’d stay out the entire lease.” 

“Art is long, George,” observed Flossie, wickedly. 


io6 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


‘^Oh, yes, I know ; but they promised faithfully to 
be out in ten days, and they were over three weeks ! ” 

“But look at the result! George, how did you 
find out that Ella liked grained doors ? " 

“Well, to tell you the truth, Flossie, that was a 
bit of a fluke. The man told me that graining was 
coming in again, and I said, ‘ Grain ’em, then ’ — I 
didn’t know I ” 

In short, he was more provokingly dense than ever 
to-day, and Ella found herself growing more and more 
captious and irritable that afternoon ; he could not 
understand why she was so disinclined to talk ; even 
the dear little house of which she was so soon to be 
the mistress failed to interest her. 

“You have told me twice already that you got the 
drawing-room carpet a great bargain, and only paid 
four pounds ten for the table in the dining-room,” 
she broke out. “Can’t we take that for granted in 
future ? ” 

“ I forgot I’d told you ; I thought it was the mater,” 
he said; “and I say, Ella, how about pictures.? 
Jessie’s promised to do us some water-colours — she’s 
been taking lessons lately, you know — but we shall 
want one or two prints for the dining-room, shan’t 
we ? You can pick them up second-hand very 
cheap. ” 

“Oh, yes, yes; anything you please, George! . . . 
No, no ; I’m not cross. I’m only tired, especially of 
talking about the house. It is quite finished, you 
know, so what zs there to discuss ? ” 

During the days that followed, Flossie devised an 
ingenious method of tormenting Ella ; she laid out 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


107 


her pocket-money, of which she had a good deal, on 
the most preposterous ornaments — a pair of dangling 
cut-glass lustres, bead mats, a trophy of wax fruit under 
a glass shade, gaudy fire-screens and flower-pots, all 
of which she solemnly presented to her suffering 
sister. This was not pure mischief or unkindness on 
Flossie’s side, but part of a treatment she had hit upon 
for curing Ella of her folly. And at last the worm 
turned. Flossie came in one day with a cheap plush 
and terra-cotta panel of appalling ugliness. 

“For the drawing-room, dear,” she observed 
blandly, and Ella suddenly burst into a flood of tears. 

“You are very, very unkind to me, Flossie ! ” she 
sobbed. 

“ I ! ” exclaimed Flossie, in a tone of the most inno- 
cent surprise. “Why, Ella, I thought you would be 
charmed with it. I’m sure George will. And, you 
know, it will go beautifully with the rest of your 
things ! ” 

“You might understand . . . you might see ” 

“I might see what .? ” 

“ How frightfully miserable I am ! ” said Ella, 
which was the very admission Miss Flossie had been 
seeking to provoke. 

“Suppose I do see,” she said ; “suppose I’ve been 
trying to get you to act sensibly, Ella ? ” 

“ Then it’s cruel of you ! ” 

“No, it’s not. It’s kind. How am I to help you 
unless you speak out 1 I’m younger than you, Ella, 
but I know this — /would never mope and' make 
myself miserable when a word would put everything 
right I ” 


io8 


A MATTE OF TASTE. 


‘‘ But it wouldn’t, Flossie ; it is too late to speak 
now. I can’t tell him how I really feel — I can’t ! ” 
Ah, then you own there is something to tell ? ” 
“What have I said ? Flossie, forget what I said ; 
it slipped out. I meant nothing. ” 

“And you are perfectly happy and satisfied, are 
you ? Now, I know how people look when they are 
perfectly happy and satisfied. ” 

“ It’s no use ! ” cried Ella, suddenly. “I’ve tried, 
and tried, and tried to bear it, but I can’t. I musi ieW 
somebody ... it is making me ill. I am getting 
cross and wicked, and unlike what I used to be. 
Flossie, I can’t go and live there — I dread the thought 
of it ; I shrink from it more and more every day ! It 
is all odious, impossible — and yet I must, I must ! ” 

“ No, you mustn’t : and, what’s more you shan’t I ” 
“Flossie, you mean you will tell mother ! You 
must not, do you hear } If you do, it will only make 
matters worse. Oh, why did I tell you ? ” cried Ella, 
in shame at this lapse from all her heroism. ‘ ‘ Promise 
me you will say nothing to mother — it is too late now 
— promise ! ” 

“Very well,” said Flossie reluctantly; “ then I 
promise. But, all the same, Ella, I think you’re a 
great goose ! ” 

“ I didn’t promise I wouldn’t say anything to 
George, though,” she reflected ; and so, on the very 
next occasion that she caught him alone, she availed 
herself of an innocent allusion of his to Ella’s low 
spirits to give him the benefit of her candid opinion 
which was not tempered by any marked considera- 
tion for his feelings. 


A MATTER OF TASTE, tog 

Ella was in the morning-room alone — she had taken 
to sitting alone lately, brooding over her trials. She 
was no heroine, after all ; her mind, it is to be feared, 
was far from superior. She was finding out that she 
had undertaken too heavy a task ; she could not con- 
sole herself for her lost dream of a charmingly ap- 
pointed house. She might endure to live in such a 
home as George had made for her ; but to be expected 
to admire it, to let it be understood that it was her 
handiwork, that she had chosen or approved of it — 
this was the burden that was crushing her. 

Suddenly the door opened and George stood before 
her. His expression was so altered that she scarcely 
recognised him ; all the cheery buoyancy had van- 
ished, and his stern, set face had a dignity and char- 
acter in it now that were wanting before. 

‘H have just had a talk with Flossie,” he began ; 
‘‘she has shown me what a — what a mistake I’ve 
been making.” 

Ella could not help feeling a certain relief, though 
she said, “ It was very wrong of Flossie — she had no 
right to speak.” 

“ She had every right,” he said. “ She might have 
done it more kindly, perhaps, but that’s nothing. 
Why didn’t you tell me yourself, Ella ? You might 
have trusted me ! ” 

“I couldn’t— it seemed so cruel, so ungrateful, 
after all you had done. I hoped you would never 
know.” 

“ It’s well for you, and for me too, that I know this 
while there’s still time. Ella, I’ve been a blind, blun- 
dering fool. I never had a suspicion of this till — till just 


tto 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


now, or you don’t think I should have gone on with it 
a single minute. I came to tell you that you need 
not make yourself miserable any longer. I will put 
an end to this — whatever it costs me. ” 

“Oh, George, I am so ashamed. I know it is 
weak and cowardly of me, but I can’t help it. And 
— and will it cost you so very much ? ” 

‘ ‘ Quite as much as I can bear. ” 

“No; but tell me — about how much? More than 
a hundred pounds ? ” 

‘ ‘ I haven’t worked it out in pounds, shillings, 
and pence,” he said grimly; “but I should put it 
higher myself.” 

“ Won’t they take back some of the things ? They 
ought to,” she suggested timidly. 

“The things? Oh, the furniture ! Good Heavens, 
Ella ! do you suppose I care a straw about that ? All 
I can think of is how I could have gone on deceiv- 
ing myself like this, believing I knew your every 
thought ; and all the time — pah, what a fool I’ve 
been ! ” 

“I thought I should get used to it,” she pleaded. 
“And oh, you don’t know how hard I have tried to 
bear it, not to let any one see what I felt — you don’t 
know ! ” 

“ And I would rather not know,” he replied, “for 
it’s not exactly flattering, you see, Ella. And at all 
events, it’s over now. This is the last time I shall 
trouble you ; you will see no more of me after to- 
day.” 

Ella could only stare at him incredulously. Had 
he really taken the matter so seriously to heart as this ? 


A MA TTER OF TASTE, 


III 


Could he not forgive the wound to his vanity ? How 
hard, how utterly unworthy of him ! 

“Yes/' he continued, “I see now we were quite 
unsuited to one another. I should never have made 
you happy, Ella ; it’s best to find it out before it’s too 
late. So let us shake hands and say good-bye, my 
dear. ” 

She felt powerless to appeal to him, and yet it was 
not wholly pride that tied her tongue ; she was too 
shaken and stunned to make the least effort at 
remonstrance. 

“Then, if it must be,” she said at last, very low — 
“good-bye, George. ’ 

He crushed her hand in his strong grasp. “Don’t 
mind about me,” he said roughly. “You’ve nothing 
to blame yourself for. I daresay I shall get over it 
all right. It’s rather sudden at first — that’s all ! ” 
And with that he was gone. 

Flossie, coming in a little later, found her sister 
sitting by the window, smiling in a strange, vacant 
way. ^‘WellP'" said Flossie eagerly, for she had 
been anxiously waiting to hear the result of the 
interview. 

“ It’s all over, Flossie ; he has broken it off.” 

“Oh, Ella, I am so glad ! I hoped he would, but 
I wasn’t sure. Well, you may thank me for deliver- 
ing you, darling. If I hadn’t spoken plainly ” 

“Tell me what you said.” 

“Oh, let me see. Well, I told him anybody else 
would have seen long ago that your feelings were al- 
tered. I said you were perfectly miserable at having 
to marry him, only you thought it was too late to say 


112 


A MATTEL OF TASTE, 


so. I told him he didn’t understand you in the least, 
and you hadn’t a single thought or taste in common. 
I said if he cared about you at all, the best way he 
could prove it was by setting you free, and not spoil- 
ing your life and his own too. I put it as pleasantly 
as I could,” said Flossie naively, “but he is very 
trying ! ” 

“You told him all that ! What made you invent 
such wicked, cruel lies ? Flossie, it is you that have 
spoilt our lives, and I will never forgive you — never, 
as long as I live ! ” 

“ Ella ! ” cried the younger sister, utterly astonished 
at this outburst. “Why, didn’t you tell me the other 
day how miserable you were, and how you dared 
not speak about it ? And now, when I ” 

“Go away, Flossie; you have done mischief 
enough ! ” 

‘ ‘ Oh, very well, I’m going — if this is all I get for 
helping you. Is it my fault if you don’t know your 
own mind, and say what you don’t mean ? And if 
you really want your dearly beloved George back 
again, there’s time yet ; he hasn’t gone — he’s in the 
drawing-room with mother. ” 

How infinitely petty her past misery seemed now ! 
for what trifles she had thrown away George’s honest 
heart ! If only there was a chance still ! at least 
false pride should not come between them any longer : 
so thought Ella on her way to the drawing-room. 
George was still there ; as she turned the door-handle 
she heard her mother’s clear resonant tones. “Not 
that that is any excuse for Ella,” she was saying. 

Ella burst precipitately into the room. She was 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


II3 

only just in time, for George had risen and was evi- 
dently on the point of leaving. “George,’’ she ex- 
claimed, panting after her rapid flight, “I — I came to 
tell you ” 

“My dear Ella,” interrupted Mrs. Hylton, “the 
kindest thing you can do for George now is to let him 
go without any more explanations.” 

Ella stopped ; again her mind became a blank. 
What had she come for ; what was it she felt she must 
say ? While she hesitated, George was already at the 
other door ; he seemed anxious to avoid hearing her ; 
in another second he would be gone. 

She cried to him piteously. “ George, dear George, 
don’t leave me ! . . . I can’t bear it ! ” 

“This is too ridiculous!” exclaimed her mother 
angrily. “ What is it that you do want, Ella? ” 

“ I want George,” she said simply. “ It was all a 

mistake, George. Flossie mistook Oh, you don’t 

really think that I have left off caring for you? I 
haven’t, dear, indeed I haven’t — won’t you believe 
me ? ” 

“ I had better leave you to come to an understand- 
ing together,” said Mrs. Hylton, not in the best of 
tempers, for she had been more sorry for George than 
for the rupture he came to announce, and she swept 
out of the room with very perceptible annoyance. 


“I thought it was all up with me, Ella; I did 
indeed,” said George, a minute or two later, his face 
still pale after all this emotion. “ But tell me — what’s 
wrong with the furniture I ordered ? ” 

8 


A MATTER OF TASTE, 


II4 

‘‘Nothing, dear, nothing,” she answered, blushing. 
“Don’t think about it any more.” 

“No ? But your mother was talking about it too,” 
he insisted. ‘ ‘ Come, Ella, dear, for heaven’s sake let 
us have no more misunderstandings ! I see now what 
an ass I was not to wait and let you choose for 
yourself ; these aesthetic things are not in my line. 
But I’d no idea you’d care so much ! ” 

“But I don’t now — a bit.” 

‘ ‘ Well, I do, then. And the house must be done all 
over again, and exactly as you would like it ; so there’s 
no more to be said about it,” said George, without a 
trace of pique or wounded vanity. 

‘ ‘ George, you are too good to me ; I don’t de- 
serve it. And indeed you must not — think of the 
expense I ” 

His face lengthened slightly ; he knew well enough 
that the change would cost him dear. 

“I’ll manage it somehow,” he declared stoutly. 

Would her mother help them now ? thought Ella, 
and felt more than doubtful. No, in spite of her own 
wishes, she must not allow George to carry out his 
intentions. 

“But you forget Carrie and Jessie,” she said ; 
“we shall hurt their feelings so if we change 
now. ” 

“By Jove! I forgot that,” he said. “Yes, they 
won’t like it — they meant well, poor girls, and took a 
lot of trouble. Still, you’re the first person to be con- 
sidered, Ella. I’ll try and smooth it over with them, 
and if they choose to be offended, why, they must — 
that’s all. And I tell you what. Suppose we go and 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


II5 

see the house now, and you shall tell me just what 
wants doing to make it right ? ” 

She would have liked to decline this rather in- 
vidious office, especially as she felt no compromise to 
be possible ; but he was so urgent that she finally 
agreed to go with him. 

As they gained Campden Hill and the road in 
which their house stood, George stopped. Hullo 1 ” 
he said, that can't be the house — what’s the matter 
with it ? ” 

Very soon it was pretty evident what had been the 
matter — the walls were scorched and streaming, the 
window sashes were empty, charred and wasted by 
fire, the door was blistered and blackened, a stalwart 
fireman in his undress cap, with his helmet slung at 
his back, was just opening the gate as they came 
up. 

“ Can’t come in, sir,” he said, civilly enough. “ No 
one admitted. ” 

‘‘Hang it ! ” exclaimed George, “it’s my own fire — 
I’m the tenant.” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir — it’s been got under 
some hours now. I was just going off duty.” 

“ Much damage done ? ” inquired George laconi- 
cally. 

“Well, you see, sir,” said the man, evidently con- 
sidering how to prepare George for the worst, “we 
didn’t get the call till the house was well alight, and 
there was three steamers and a manual a-playing on 
it so — well, you must expect things to be a bit untidy- 
like inside. But the walls and the roof ain’t much 
damaged.” 


ii6 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


“And how did it happen? — the house isn’t even 
occupied. ” 

“Workmen,” said the man. “ Some one was in 
there early this morning and left the gas escaping 
somewhere, and as likely as not a light burning near 
— and here you are. Well, I’ll be off, sir ; there s 
nothing more to be done ’ere. Good-day, sir, and 
thank ye, I’m sure.” 

“ Oh, George ! ” said Ella, half crying, “ our poor, 
poor little house ! It seems like a judgment on me. 
How can you laugh ! Who will build it up for us 
now ? ” 

‘ ‘ Who ? Why, the insurance people to be sure ! Y ou 
see, the firm are agents for the ‘Curfew,’ and as soon 
as I got all the furniture in I insured the whole con- 
cern and got a protection note, so we’re all right. 
Don’t worry, little girl. Why, don’t you see this gets 
us out of our difficulty ? We can start afresh now with- 
out offending anybody. Look there ; there’s that 
idiot of a plumber who’s done all the mischief — 
a nice funk he’ll be in when he sees us ! ” 

But Mr. Peagrum was quite unperturbed; if any- 
thing, his smudgy features wore a look of sombre com- 
placency as he came towards them. “ I’m sorry this 
should have occurred,” he said, “ but you’ll bear me out 
that I warned yer as something was bound to ’appen. 
In course I couldn’t tell what form it might take, and 
fire I must say I did not expect. I ’adn’t on’y been 
in the place not a quarter of a hour watering the 
gaselier in the libery — the libery as was, I should say 
— when it struck me I’d forgot my screw-driver, so, 
fortunately, as things turned out, I went ’ome to my 


A MATTER OF TASTE. 


I17 

place to get it, and I come back to see the place all in 
a blaze. It’s fate, that’s what it is — fate’s at the 
bottom o’ this ’ere job ! ” 

“Much more likely to be a lighted candle,” said 
George. 

“I was not on the premises at the time, so I can’t 
say ; but, be that ’ow it may, there’s no denying it’s 
a singler thing the way my words have been fulfilled 
almost literal.” 

“ Confound you ! ” said George. “ You take good 
care your prophecies come off. Why, man, you’re not 
going to pretend you don’t know that it’s your own 
carelessness that’s brought this about ! This isn’t 
the only house you’ve brought bad luck into, Mr. 
What’s-your-name, since you’ve started in business ! ” 

“You can’t make me lose my temper,” replied 
the plumber with dignity. “I put it down to igni- 
rance. ” 

“So do I,” said George. “ And if I know any one 
who’s anxious for a little typhoid, or wants his house 
burnt down at a moderate charge, why, I shall know 
whom to recommend. Good-day.” 

He turned on his heel and walked off, but Ella 
lingered behind. “ I only just wanted to tell you,” she 
said, addressing the astonished plumber, “ that you 
have done us a very great service, and I, at least, am 
very much obliged to you.” And she fluttered away 
after her fiance. 

The plumber — that instrument of Destiny — ^looked 
after the retreating couple, and indulged in a mystified 
whistle. 

“’.fi* comes a bullyragging of me,” he observed to 


Il8 A MATTER OF TASTE. 

a lamp-post, and she’s ‘very much obliged’ ! And 
I’m blowed if I know what for, either way ! Cracked, 
poor young things, cracked, the pair on ’em — and no 
wonder, with such a calamity so recent. Ah, well, I 
do ’ope as this is the end on it. I ’ope I shan’t be 
the means of bringing no more trouble into that little 
’ouse — that I kin truly say ! ” 

And — human gratitude having its limits — it is 
highly probable that this pious aspiration will not be 
disappointed, so long, at least, as Mr. and Mrs. Chap- 
man’s tenancy continues. 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY 
DOG. 


A TALE FOR CHILDREN. 

“Daisy, dearest,’’ said Miss Millikin anxiously to her 
niece one afternoon, ‘ ' do you think poor Don is quite 
the thing ? He has seemed so very languid these last 
few days, and he is certainly losing his figure ! ” 

Daisy was absorbed in a rather ambitious attempt 
to sketch the lake from the open windows of Apple- 
thwaite Cottage, and did not look up from her drawing 
immediately. When she did speak her reply might 
perhaps been more sympathetic. “He eats such 
a lot, auntie !” she said. “Yes, Don, we are talking 
about you. You know you eat too much, and that’s 
the reason you’re so disgracefully fat.” 

Don, who was lying on a rug under the verandah, 
wagged his tail with an uneasy protest, as if he dis- 
approved (as indeed he did) of the very personal turn 
Daisy had given to the conversation. He had noticed 
himself that he was not as active as he used to be ; 
he grew tired so very soon now when he chased birds 
(he was always possessed by a fixed idea that, if he 
only gave his whole mind to it, he could catch any 
swallow that flew at all fairly) ; he felt the heat con- 
siderably. 

Still, it was Don’s opinion that, so long as he did 


120 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 

not mind being fat himself, it was no business of any 
other person’s — certainly not of Daisy s. 

“ But, Daisy,” cried MissMillikin plaintively, ‘‘you 
don’t really mean that I overfeed him ? ” 

“Well,” Daisy admitted, “I think you give way to 
him rather. Aunt Sophy, I really do. I know that at 
home we never let Fop have anything between his 
meals. Jack says that unless a small dog is kept on 
very simple diet he’ll soon get fat, and getting fat,” 
added Daisy portentously, “means having fits sooner 
or later. ” 

“ Oh, my dear exclaimed her aunt, now seriously 
alarmed. ‘ ‘ What do you think I ought to do about it ? ” 

“I know what I would do if he was my dog,” said 
Daisy, with great decision — “diet him, and take no 
notice when he begs at table ; I would. I’d begin 
this very afternoon.” 

After tea, Daisy ?” stipulated Miss Millikin. 

“No,” was the inflexible answer, “^z/tea. It’s all 
for his own good. ” 

“Yes, dear, I’m sure you’re right — but he has such 
pretty ways — I’m so afraid I shall forget.” 

‘ ‘ I’ll remind you. Aunt Sophy. He shan’t take 
advantage of you while I'm here.” 

“ You’re just a tiny bit hard on him, Daisy, aren’t 
you ? ” 

“ Hard on Don ! ” cried Daisy, catching him up and 
holding him out at arm’s length. “ Don, I’m not hard 
on you, am I ? I love you, only I see your faults, and 
you know it. You’re full of deceitfulness” (here she 
kissed him between the eyes and set him down)./ 
“Aunt Sophy, you would never have found out his 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 121 

trick about the milk if it hadn’t been for me — would 
you now ? ” 

“Perhaps not, my love,” agreed Miss Millikin, 
mildly. 

The trick in question was a certain ingenious 
device of Don s for obtaining a double allowance 
of afternoon tea— a refreshment for which he had 
acquired a strong taste. The tea had once been too 
hot and burnt his tongue, and, as he howled with the 
pain, milk had been added. Ever since that occa- 
sion he had been in the habit of lapping up all but a 
spoonful or two of the tea in his saucer, and then 
uttering a pathetic little yelp ; whereupon innocent 
Miss Millikin would as regularly fill up the saucer 
with milk again. 

But, unfortunately for Don, his mistress had in- 
vited her niece Daisy to spend part of her summer 
holidays at her pretty cottage in the Lake District, 
and Daisy’s sharper eyes had detected this little strat- 
agem about the milk on the very first evening ! 

Daisy was fourteen, and I fancy I have noticed 
that when a girl is about this age, she not unfrequently 
has a tendency to be rather a severe disciplinarian 
when others than herself are concerned. At all events 
Daisy had very decided notions on the proper method 
of bringing up dogs, and children too ; only there 
did not happen to be any children at Applethwaite 
Cottage to try experiments upon ; and she was quite 
sure that Aunt Sophy allowed herself to be shamefully 
imposed upon by Don. 

There was perhaps some excuse for Miss Millikin, 
for Don was a particularly charming specimen of the 


122 DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 

Yorkshire terrier, with a silken coat of silver-blue, set 
off by a head and paws of the ruddiest gold. His 
manners were most insinuating, and his great eyes 
glowed at times under his long hair, as if a wistful, 
loving little soul were trying to speak through them. 
But, though it seems an unkind thing to say, it must 
be confessed that this same soul in Don’s eyes was 
never quite so apparent as when he was begging for 
some peculiarly appetising morsel. He was really 
fond of his mistress, but at meal times I am afraid he 
‘'put it on” a little bit. Of course this was not quite 
straightforward ; but then I am not holding him up 
as a model animal. 

How far he understood the conversation that has 
been given above is more than I can pretend to say, 
but from that afternoon he began to be aware of a 
very unsatisfactory alteration in his treatment. 

Don had sometimes felt a little out of temper with 
his mistress for being slow to understand exactly what 
he did want, and he had barked, almost sharply, to 
intimate to the best of his powers — “ Not bread and 
butter, stupid — cake/” So you may conceive his 
disgust when she did not even give him bread and 
butter ; nothing but judicious advice — without jam. 
She was most apologetic, it is true, and explained 
amply why she could not indulge him as heretofore, 
but Don wanted sugar, and not sermons. Sometimes 
she nearly gave way, and then cruel Daisy would 
intercept the dainty under his very nose, which he 
thought most unfeeling. 

He had a sort of notion that it was all through 
Daisy that they were just as stingy and selfish in the 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 123 

kitchen, and that his meals were now so absurdly few 
and plain. It was very ungrateful of her, for he had 
gone out of his way to be polite and attentive to her. 
When he thought of her behaviour to him he felt 
strongly inclined to sulk, but somehow he did not 
actually go so far as that. He liked Daisy ; she was 
pretty for one thing, and Don always preferred pretty 
people, and then she stroked him in a very superior 
and soothing manner. Besides this, he respected her : 
she had been entrusted with the duty of punishing him 
on more than one occasion, and her slaps really hurt, 
while it was hopeless to try to soften her heart by 
trying to lick the chastising hands — a manoeuvre which 
was always effective with poor Miss Millikin. So he 
contented himself with letting her see that though he 
did not understand her conduct towards him, he was 
willing to overlook it for the present. 

‘ ‘ What a wonderful improvement in the dear dog ! ” 
Miss Millikin remarked one morning at breakfast, 
after Don had been on short commons for a week or 
two. “ Really, Daisy, I begin to think you were quite 
right about him. ” 

“Oh, Tm sure I was,’' said Daisy, who always had 
great confidence in her own judgment. 

“Yes,” continued her aunt, “and, now he’s so much 
better — just this one small bit, Daisy .? ” Don’s eyes 
already had a green glitter in them and his mouth 
was watering. 

“No, Aunt Sophy,” said Daisy, “I wouldn’t — 
, really. He’s better without anything.” 

“ I wish that girl was gone ! ” reflected poor Don, 
as he went sulkily back to his basket. “ It’s enough 


124 DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 

to make a dog steal, upon my tail it is ! Tm positively 
starved — no bones, no chicken, only beastly dry dog- 
biscuits and milk twice a day ! I wish I could rum- 
mage about in gutters and places as Jock does — but 
I don’t think the things you find in gutters are ever 
really nice. Jock does — but he’s just that low sort of 
dog who would I'" 

Jock was a humble friend of his down in the vil- 
lage, a sort of distant relation to the Dandie Din- 
monts ; he was a rough, long-backed creature, as 
grey as a badger, and with a big solemn head like 
a hammer. Don was civil to him in a patronising 
way, but he did not tell him of the indignities he 
was subject to, perhaps because he had been rather 
given to boast of his influence over his mistress, 
and the high consideration he enjoyed at Applethwaite 
Cottage. 

Now Daisy used to go up for solitary rambles on 
the fells sometimes, when she generally took Don as 
a protector. He was becoming very nearly as active 
as ever, and now there was a stronger motive than 
before for pursuing the swallows — for he had a notion 
that they would be rather good eating. But one morn- 
ing she missed him on her way back through the vil- 
lage by the lake ; she was sure he was with her on 
the pier, and she had only stopped to ask some ques- 
tion at the ticket-office about the steamboat times ; 
and when she turned round, Don was gone. 

However, her aunt was neither angry nor alarmed. 
Miss Millikin was not able to walk as much as Don 
wished, she said, so he was accustomed to take a great 
deal of solitary exercise ; he was such a remarkably 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 125 

intelligent dog that he could be trusted to take care 
of himself — oh, he would come back. 

And towards dusk that evening Don did come back. 
There was a curious air about him — subdued, almost 
sad ; Daisy remembered long afterwards how unusu- 
ally affectionate he had been, and how quietly he had 
lain on her lap till bedtime. 

The next morning, when her aunt and she prepared 
to go for a walk along the lake, Don’s excitement was 
more marked than usual ; he leaped up and tried to 
caress their hands : he assured them in a thousand 
ways of the delight he felt at being allowed to make 
one of the party. 

After this, it was a painful surprise to find that he 
gave them the slip the moment they reached the vil- 
lage. But Miss Millikin said he always did prefer 
mountain scenery, and no doubt it was tiresome for 
him to have to potter about as they did. And Master 
Don began to give them less and less of his society in 
the daytime, and to wander from morn to dewy eve 
in solitude and independence; though whether he 
went up mountains to admire the view, or visited 
ruins and waterfalls, or spent his days hunting rabbits, 
no one at Applethwaite Cottage could even pretend to 
guess. 

“ One good thing. Aunt Sophy,” said Daisy com- 
placently, one evening a little later, “ I’ve quite cured 
Don of being troublesome at meals ! ” 

“He couldn’t be troublesome if he tried, dear,” said . 
Miss Millikin with mild reproof; “but I must say 
you have succeeded quite wonderfully — how did you 
do it?’^ 


126 DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 

“Why/’ said Daisy, “I spoke to him exactly as if 
he could understand every word, and I made him 
thoroughly see that he was only wasting his time by 
sitting up and begging for things. And you got to 
believe it at last, didn’t you, dear? ” she added to Don, 
who was lying stretched out on the rug. 

Don pricked the ear that was uppermost, and then 
uttered a heavy sigh, which smote his mistress to the 
heart. 

“ Daisy,” she said, ‘it’s no use — I must give him 
something. Poor pet, he deserves it for being so good 
and patient all this time. One biscuit, Daisy ? ” 

Even Daisy relented : “Well — a very plain one, 
then. Let me give it tO him, auntie ? ” 

The biscuit was procured, and Daisy, with an ex- 
press intimation that this was a very particular indul- 
gence, tendered it to the deserving terrier. 

He half raised his head, sniffed at it— and then fell 
back again with another weary little sigh. Daisy 
felt rather crushed. “ I’m afraid he’s cross with me,” 
she said ; “ you try. Aunt Sophy.” Aunt Sophy tried, 
but with no better success, though Don wagged his 
tail feebly to express that he was not actuated by any 
personal feeling in the matter — he had no appetite, 
that was all. 

“Daisy,” said Miss Millikin, with something more 
like anger than she generally showed, “I was very 
wrong to listen to you about the diet. It’s perfectly 
plain to me that by checking Don’s appetite as we 
have we have done him serious harm. You can see 
for yourself that he is past eating anything at all now. 
Cook told me to-day that he had scarcely touched his 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 127 

meals lately. And yet he’s stouter than ever — isrit 
he?” 

Daisy was forced to allow that this was so. ‘‘But 
what can it be ? ” she said. 

“It’s disease, ” said her aunt, very solemnly. ‘ ‘ I’ve 
read over and over again that corpulence has nothing 
whatever to do with the amount of food one eats. 
And, oh ! Daisy, I don’t want to blame you, dear — 
but I’m afraid we have been depriving him of the 
nourishing things he really needed to enable him to 
struggle against the complaint ! ” 

Poor Daisy was overcome by remorse as she knelt 
over the recumbent Don. ‘ ‘ Oh, darling Don, ” she 
said, ‘ ‘ I didn’t mean it — you know I didn’t, don’t 
you? You must get well and forgive me ! I tell you 
what, aunt,” she said as she rose to her feet, “you 
know you said I might drive you over in the pony-cart 
to that tennis-party at the Netherbys’ to-morrow. 
Well, young Mr. Netherby is rather a ‘ doggy ’ sort 
of man, and nice too. Suppose we take Don with us 
and ask him to tell us plainly whether he has anything 
dreadful the matter with him ? ” 

Miss Millikin consented, though she did not pre- 
tend to hope much from Mr. Netherby’s skill. “ I’m 
afraid,” she said, with a sigh, “that only a very 
clever veterinary surgeon would find out what really 
is the matter with Don. But you can try, my dear.” 

The following afternoon Miss Millikin entrusted 
herself and Don to Daisy’s driving, not without some 
nervous misgivings. 

“You’re quite sure you can manage him, Daisy?” 
she said. “If not we can take John.” 


128 DO^r; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 

‘*Why, Aunt Sophy I” exclaimed Daisy, I always 
drive the children at home ; and sometimes when I’m 
on the box with Toppin, he gives me the reins in a 
straight part of the road, and Paul and Virginia pull 
like anything — Toppin says it’s all he can do to hold 
them. ” 

Daisy was a little hurt at the idea that she might 
find Aunt Sophy’s pony too much for her — a sleepy 
little “slug of a thing,” as she privately called it, 
which pattered along exactly like a clockwork animal 
in urgent need of winding up. 

Don seemed a little better that day, and was lifted 
into the pony-cart, where he lay on the india-rubber 
mat, sniffing the air as if it was doing him good. 

Daisy really could drive well for her age, and woke 
the pony up in a manner that astonished her aunt, 
who remarked from time to time that she knew Wild- 
fire wanted to walk now — he never could trot long at 
a time — and so they reached the Netherbys’ house, 
which was five miles away towards the head of the 
lake, well under the hour, a most surprising feat — for 
Wildfire. 

It was a grown-up tennis-party, and Daisy, al- 
though she had brought her racket, was a little afraid 
to play ; besides, she wanted to consult young Mr. 
Netherby about Don, who had been left with the cart 
in the stables. 

Mr. Netherby, who was a good-natured, red-faced 
young soldier, just about to join his regiment, was 
not playing either, so Daisy went up to him on the 
first opportunity. 

“You know about dogs, Mr. Netherby, don’t you?” 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 129 

“Rath-er!” said Mr. Netherby, who was a trifle 
slangy. “Why? Are you thinking of investing in 
a dog ? ” 

“It’s Aunt Sophy’s dog,” explained Daisy, “and 
he’s ill — very ill — and we can’t make out what’s the 
matter, so I thought you would tell us perhaps ? ” 

“I’ll ride over to-morrow and have a look at 
him.” 

“ Oh, but you needn’t — he’s here. Wait — I’ll fetch 
him — don’t you come, please.” 

And presently Daisy made her appearance on the 
lawn, carrying Don, who felt quite a weight, in her 
arms. She set him down before the young man, 
who examined him in a knowing manner, while Miss 
Millikin, and some others who were not playing just 
then, gathered round. Don was languid, but digni- 
fied — he rather liked being the subject of so much 
notice. Daisy waited breathlessly for the verdict. 

“Well,” said Mr. Netherby, “it’s easy enough to 
see what’s wrong with him. I should knock off his 
grub.” 

“ But,” cried Miss Millikin, “we have knocked off 
his grub, as you call it. The poor dog is starved — 
literally starved.” 

Mr. Netherby said he should scarcely have sup- 
posed so from his appearance. 

“But I assure you he has eaten nothing — positively 
nothing- — for days and days ! ” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Netherby, “chameleon, is he? then 
he’s had too much air — that’s all.” 

Just then a young lady who had been brought by 
some friends living close by joined the group : 

9 


130 DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 

“Why,” she said at once, “ thafs the little steamer 
dog. How did he come here } ” 

“ He is not a little steamer dog,” said Miss Millikin 
in her most dignified manner ; “ he is my dog.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t know,” said the first speaker ; “but 
— but I’m sure IVe seen him on the steamer several 
times lately.” 

“ I never use the steamers unless Fm absolutely 
obliged — I disapprove of them : it must have been 
some other dog.” 

The young lady was positive she had made no 
mistake. “You so seldom see a dog with just those 
markings,” she said, “and I don’t think anybody 
was with him ; he came on board at Amblemere and 
went all round the lake with us.” 

“ At Amblemere ! ” cried Daisy, that’s where we 
live ; and, Aunt Sophy, you know Don has been away 
all day lots of times lately. ” 

‘ ‘ What did this dog do on the steamer ? ” asked 
Miss Millikin faintly. 

‘ ‘ Oh, he was so sweet ! he went round to every- 
body, and sat up so prettily till they gave him biscuits 
and things — he was everybody’s pet ; we were all 
jealous of one another for the honour of feeding him. 
The second time we brought buns on purpose. But 
we quite thought he belonged to the steamer.” 

Young Mr. Netherby laughed. “So that is how 
he took the air! I thought I wasn’t far wrong,” he 
said. 

“Put him back in the cart, Daisy,” said Miss Mil- 
likin severely ; “I can’t bear to look at him.” 

Don did his best to follow this dialogue, but all he 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 13 1 

could make out was that it was about himself, and 
that he was being as usual exceedingly admired. So 
he sat and looked as good and innocent and interest- 
ing as he knew how. Just then he felt that he would 
almost rather they did not offer him anything to eat 
— at least not anything very sweet and rich, for he 
was still not at all well. It was a relief to be back 
in the cart and in peace again, though he wondered 
why Daisy didn’t kiss the top of his head as she had 
done several times in carrying him to the lawn. This 
time she held him at a distance, and said nothing but 
two words, which sounded suspiciously like “You 
pig!” as she put him down. 

Miss Millikin was very grave and silent as they 
drove home. “ I can’t trust myself to speak, about 
it, Daisy,” she said; “if — if it was true, it shows 
such an utter want of principle — such deceit ; and 
Don used to be so honest and straightforward ! What 
if we make inquiries at the pier? It — it may be all a 
mistake. ” 

They stopped for this purpose at Amblemere. “Ay, 
Miss Millikin, mum, he cooms ahn boord reglar, does 
that wee dug,” said the old boatman, “ and a’ makes 
himsel’ rare an’ frien’ly, ’a do — they coddle him oop 
fine, amang ’em. Eh, but he’s a smart little dug. 
We quite look for him of a morning coomin’ for his 
constitutionil, fur arl the worl’ like a Chreestian ! ” 

“ Like a very greedy Christian ! ” said his disgusted 
mistress. “Daisy,” she said, when she returned to 
the pony-cart, “it’s all true ! I — I never have been 
so deceived in any one ; and the worst of it is, I don’t 
know how to punish him, or how to make him feel 


1.32 DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 

what a disgraceful trick this is. Nobody else’s dog I 
ever heard of made his mistress publicly absurd in 
this way. It’s so — so ungrateful ! ” 

“Aunt Sophy,” said Daisy, “I’ve an idea. Will 
you leave him to me, and pretend you don’t suspect 
anything ? I will cure him this time ! ” 

“You — you won’t want to whip him.?” said Miss 
Millikin, “because, though it’s all his own doing, he 
really is not well enough for it just now.” 

“No,” said Daisy, “I won’t tell you my plan, 
auntie, but it’s better than whipping.” 

And all this time the unconscious Don was wearing 
an expression of uncomplaining suffering, and looking 
meekly sorry for himself, with no suspicion in the 
world that he had been found out. 

Next day he felt much better, and as the morning 
was bright he thought that, after all, he might manage 
another steamer trip ; his appetite had come back, 
and his breath was not nearly so short as it had been. 
He was just making modestly for the gate when 
Daisy stopped him. “Where are you going, sir?” 
she inquired. 

Don rolled over instantly with all his legs in the air 
and a feeble apology in his eye. 

“ I want you for just one minute first,” said Daisy 
politely, and carried him into the moming-room. 
Was he going to be whipped ?■ — she couldn’t have the 
heart — an invalid like him ! He tried to protest by 
his whimpering. 

But Daisy did nothing of the kind ; she merely took 
something that was flat and broad and white, and 
fastened it round his neck with a very ornamental 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 133 

bow and ribbon. Then she opened the French 
windows, and said in rather a chilly voice, “ Now run 
away and get on your nasty steamer and beg, and 
see what you get by it ! ” 

That seemed, as far as he could tell, very sensible 
advice, and, oddly enough, it was exactly what he 
had been intending to do. It did not strike him as 
particularly strange that Daisy should know, because 
Don was a dog that didn’t go very deeply into matters 
unless he was obliged. 

He trotted off at an easy pace down to the village, 
getting hungrier every minute, and hoping that the 
people on the steamer would have brought some nice 
things to-day, when, close to the turning that led to the 
landing-stage, he met Jock, and was naturally obliged 
to stop for a few moments’ conversation. 

He was not at all pleased to see him notwithstand- 
ing, for I am sorry to say that Don’s greediness had 
so grown upon him of late that he was actually afraid 
that his humble friend (who was a little slow to find 
out when he wasn’t wanted) would accompany him 
on to the steamboat, and then of course the good 
things would have to be divided. 

However, Don was a dog that was always scrupu- 
lously polite, even to his fellow-dogs, and he did not 
like to be rude now. 

Hullo ! ” said Jock (in dogs’ language, of course, 
but I have reason to believe that what follows is as 
nearly as possible what was actually said). “What’s 
the matter with you this morning .? ” 

Don replied that he was rather out of sorts, and 
was going down to a certain lane for a dose of dog- 
grass. 


134 DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 

“A little dog-grass won’t do me any harm,” said 
Jock ; ril come too.” 

This was awkward, but Don pretended to be glad, 
and they went a little way together. 

“ But what’s that thing round your neck?” asked 
the Dandie Dinmont. 

‘‘Oh,” said Don, “that? Its a bit of finery they 
put on me at the cottage. It pleases them, you know. 
Think it’s becoming ? ” 

“Um,” answered Jock ; “reminds me of a thing a 
friend of mine used to wear. But he had a blind man 
tied to him. I don’t sQeyour blind man.” 

“ They would have given me a blind man of course 
if I’d asked for it,” said Don airily, “but what’s the 
use of a blind man — isn’t he rather a bore ? ” 

“I didn’t ask ; but my friend said he believed the 
thing round his neck, which was flat and white just 
like yours (only he had a tin mug underneath his), 
made people more inclined to give him things — he 
didn’t know why. Y)ojyou find that ? ” 

“ How stupid of Daisy to forget the mug ! ” thought 
Don. “I could have brought things home to eat 
quietly then. — I don’t know,” he replied to Jock ; “I 
haven’t tried.” 

He meant to put it to the test very soon, though— 
if only he could get rid of Jock. 

“ By the way,” he said carelessly, “ have you been 
round by the hotel lately ? ” 

“No,” answered Jock,” “not since the ostler threw 
a brush at me. ” 

“Well,” said Don, “there was a bone outside the 
porch, which, if I hadn’t been feeling so poorly, I 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 135 

should have had a good mind to tackle myself. But 
perhaps some other dog has got hold of it by this 
time.” 

“ ril soon make him let go if he has ! ” said Jock, 
who liked a fight almost as well as a bone. ‘ ‘ Where 
was it, did you say } ” 

“Outside the hotel. Don’t let me keep you. It 
was a beautiful bone. Good-morning,” said Don. 

He did not think it worth while to explain that he 
had seen it several days ago, for Don, as you will 
have remarked already, was a very artful dog. 

He got rid of his unwelcome friend in this highly 
unprincipled manner, and strolled on to the pier full 
of expectation. Steamers ply pretty frequently on 
this particular lake, so he had not to wait very long. 
The little Cygnet soon came hissing up, and the mo- 
ment the gangway was placed Don stepped on board, 
with tail proudly erect. 

As usual, he examined the passengers, first to see 
who had anything to give, then who looked most 
likely to give it to him. Generally he did best with 
children. He was not fond of children (Daisy was 
quite an exception), but he was very fond of cakes, 
and children, he had observed, generally had the best 
cakes. Don was so accomplished a courtier that he 
would contrive to make every child believe that he 
or she was the only person he loved in the whole 
world, and he would stay by his victim until the cake 
was all gone, and even a little longer, just for the 
look of the thing, and then move on to some one 
else and begin again. 

There were no children with any cakes or buns on 


136 DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 

board this time, however. There was a stout man 
up by the bows, dividing his attention between 
scenery and sandwiches ; but Don knew by experi- 
ence that tourists’ sandwiches are always made with 
mustard, which he hated. There were three merry- 
looking, round-faced young ladies on a centre bench, 
eating Osborne biscuits. He wished they could have 
made it sponge-cakes, because he was rather tired of 
Osborne biscuits ; but they were better than nothing. 
So to these young ladies he went, and, placing him- 
self where he could catch all their eyes at once, he 
sat up in the way he had always found irresistible. 

I don’t suppose any dog ever found his expectations 
more cruelly disappointed. It was not merely that 
they shook their heads, they went into fits of laughter 
— they were laughing at him ! Don was so deeply 
offended that he took himself off at once, and tried 
an elderly person who was munching seed-cake ; she 
did not laugh, but she examined him carefully, and 
then told him with a frown to go away. He began 
to think that Daisy’s collar was not a success ; he 
ought to have had a mug, or a blind man, or both ; 
he did much better when he was left to himself. 

Still he persevered, and went about, wagging his 
tail and sitting up appealingly. By and by he began 
to have an uncomfortable idea that people were say- 
ing things about him which were not complimentary. 
He was almost sure he heard the word “ greedy,” 
and he knew what that meant : he had been taught 
by Daisy. They must be talking of some other dog 
— not him ; they couldn’t possibly know what ho 
was I 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 137 

Now Don was undeniably a very intelligent ter- 
rier indeed, but there was just this defect in his edu- 
cation — he could not read : he had no idea what 
things could be conveyed by innocent-looking little 
black marks. “ Of course not,’’ some of my readers 
will probably exclaim, “ he was only a dog ! ” But 
it is not so absurd as it sounds, for one very distin- 
guished man has succeeded in teaching his dogs to 
read and even to spell, though I believe they have 
not got into very advanced books as yet. Still, 
it may happen some day that all but hopelessly 
backward or stupid dogs will be able to read fluently, 
and then you may find that your own family dog has 
taken this book into his kennel, and firmly declines 
to give it up until he has finished it. At present, thank 
goodness, we have not come to this, and so there is 
nothing remarkable in the mere fact that Don was 
unable to read. I only mention it because, if he had 
possessed this accomplishment, he would never have 
fallen into the trap Daisy had prepared for him. 

For the new collar was, as you perhaps guessed 
long ago, a card, and upon it was written, in Daisy’s 
neatest and plainest round hand : 

I am a very Greedy little Dog, and have Plenty to eat at Home, 

So please do not give me anything, or I shall have a Fit and die ! 

You can easily imagine that when this unlucky Don 
sat up and begged, bearing this inscription written 
legibly on his unconscious little chest, the effect was 
likely to be too much for the gravity of all but very 
stiff and solemn persons. 


138 DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 

Nearly everybody on board the steamer was de- 
lighted with him ; they pointed out the joke to one 
another, and roared with laughter, until he grew quite 
ashamed too sit up any more. Some teased him by 
pretending to give him something, and then eating it 
themselves ; some seemed almost sorry for him and 
petted him ; and one, an American, said, “It was 
playing it too low down to make the little critter give 
himself away in that style ! ” But nobody quite liked 
to disobey Daisy’s written appeal. 

Poor Don could not understand it in the least ; he 
only saw that every one was very rude and disrespect- 
ful to him, and he tried to get away under benches. 
But it was all in vain ; people routed him out from 
his hiding-places to be introduced to each new-comer ; 
he could not go anywhere without being stared at, 
and followed, and hemmed in, and hearing always 
that same hateful whisper of “ Greedy dog — not to 
be given anything,” until he felt exactly as if he was 
being washed ! 

Poor disappointed greedy dog, how gladly he would 
have given the tail between his legs to be safe at 
home in the drawing-room with Miss Millikin and 
Daisy ! How little he had bargained for such a ter- 
rible trip as this ! 

I am sure that if Daisy had ever imagined he would 
feel his disgrace so deeply she would not have had 
the heart to send him out with that tell-tale card 
around his neck ; but then he would not have received 
a very wholesome lesson, and would certainly have 
eaten himself into a serious illness before the summer 
ended, so perhaps it was all for the best 


DON; THE STORY OF A GREEDY DOG. 139 

This time Don did not go the whole round of the 
lake ; he had had quite enough of it long before 
the Cygnet reached Highwood, but he did not get a 
chance until they came to Winderside, and then, 
watching his opportunity, he gave his tormentors the 
slip at last. 

Two hours later, as Daisy and her aunt sat sketch- 
ing under the big holm-oak on the lawn, a dusty 
little guilty dog stole sneakingly in under the garden- 
gate. It was Don, and he had run all the way from 
Winderside, which, though he did not appreciate it, 
had done him a vast amount of good. “Oh ! ” cried 
Daisy, dropping her paint-brush to clap her hands 
gleefully, “look, Aunt Sophy, he has had his les- 
son already ! ” 

Miss Millikin was inclined to be shocked when she 
read the ticket. “It was too bad of you, Daisy !” 
she said ; “ I would never have allowed it if I had 
known. Come here, Don, and let me take the hor- 
rid thing off. 

“Not yet, please, auntie!” pleaded Daisy, “I 
want him to be quite cured, and it will take at least 
till bed-time. Then we will make it up to him. ” 

But Don had understood at last. It was this detest- 
able thing, then, that had been telling tales of him 
and spoiling all his fun I Very well, let him find 
himself alone with it — just once 1 And he went off 
very soberly into the shrubbery, whence in a few 
minutes came sounds of “worrying.” 

In half an hour Don came out again ; his collar 
was gone, and in his mouth he trailed a long piece 


140 BON; TII£ STORY OF A GREEDY DOG, 

y 

of chewed ribbon, which he dropped with the queer- 
est mixture of penitence and reproach at Daisy’s feet. 
After that, of course, it was impossible to do any- 
thing but take him into favour at once, and he was 
generous enough to let Daisy see that he bore her no 
malice for the trick she had played him. 

What became of the card no one ever discovered ; 
perhaps Don had buried it, though Daisy has very 
strong suspicions that he ate it as his best revenge. 

But what is more important is that from that day 
he became a slim and reformed dog, refusing firmly 
to go on board a steamer on any pretence whatever, 
and only consenting to sit up after much coaxing, 
and as a mark of particular condescension. 

So that Daisy’s experiment, whatever may be 
thought of it, was at least a successful one. 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 


There are certain misconceptions which a man 
who is prominently before the public is morally 
bound to combat — more for the sake of others than 
his own — as soon as it becomes probable that the 
popular estimate of his character may be shaken, if 
not shattered, should he hold his peace. Convinced 
as I am of this, and having- some ground to anticipate 
that the next few days may witness a damaging blow 
to my personal dignity and influence for good, I 
have thought it expedient to publish the true history 
of an episode which, if unexplained, is only too likely 
to prejudice me to a serious extent. Any circum- 
stance that tends to undermine or lessen the world’s 
reverence for its instructors is a deplorable calamity, 
to be averted at all hazards, even when this can only 
be effected by disclosures scarcely less painful to a 
delicate mind. 

For some years I, Bedell Cruncher, have conse- 
crated my poor talents to the guidance and education’ 
of public taste in questions of art and literature. To 
do this effectively I have laboured — at the cost of 
some personal inconvenience — to acquire a critical 
style of light and playful badinage. My lash has 
ever been wreathed in ribbons of rare texture and 


142 


TAKEN B Y SURPRISE. 


daintiest hues ; I have thrown cold water in abun- 
dance over the nascent flames of young- ambition — 
but such water was systematically tinctured with 
attar of roses. And in time the articles appear- 
ing in various periodicals above the signature of 
“Vitriol” became, I may acknowledge without false 
modesty, so many literary events of the first magni- 
tude. I attribute this to my early recognition of the 
true function of a critic. It is not for him to set up 
sign-posts, or even warning-boards, for those who 
run and read. To attain true distinction he should 
erect a pillory upon his study table, and start the 
fun himself with a choice selection of the literary ana- 
logues of the superannuated eggs and futile kittens 
which served as projectiles in the past. The public 
may be trusted to keep it going, and also to retain a 
grateful recollection of the original promoter of the 
sport. My little weekly and monthly pillories became 
instantly popular, for all my kittens were well aimed, 
and my eggs broke and stuck in a highly entertaining 
fashion. We are so constituted that even ‘the worst 
of us is capable of a kindly feeling towards the bene- 
factor who makes others imperishably ridiculous in 
our eyes ; and to do this was my metier a moi. At 
first my identity with the lively but terrible “Vitriol ” 
was kept a profound secret, but gradually, by some 
means which I do not at present remember, it leaked 
out, and I immediately became a social, as well as a 
literary celebrity. Physically I have been endowed 
with a presence which, though not of unusual height 
and somewhat inclined to central expansion, pro- 
duces, I find, an invariably imposing effect, especial- 


TAKEN B Y SURPRISE. 


143 


ly with members of the more emotional and impres- 
sionable sex. Consequently I was not surprised 
even at the really extraordinary sensation I inspired 
upon my first introduction to a very charming young 
lady, Miss Iris Waverley, as soon as my nom de 
guerre was (I forget just now by whom) incidentally 
alluded to. However, as it turned out, she had 
another and a deeper reason for emotion : it seemed 
she had been engaged to a young poet whose verses, 
to her untaught and girlish judgment, seemed inspired 
by draughts of the true Helicon, and whose rhyth- 
mical raptures had stirred her maiden heart to its 
depths. 

Wei!, that young poefs latest volume of verse came 
under my notice for review, and in my customary 
light-hearted fashion I held it up to general derision 
for a column or two, and then dismissed it, with an 
ineffaceable epigrammatic kick, to spin for ever 
(approximately) down the ringing grooves of criti- 
cism. 

Miss Waverley, it happened, was inclined to cor- 
rect her own views by the opinions of others, and 
was, moreover, exceptionally sensitive to any associa- 
tion of ridicule with the objects of her attachment — 
indeed, she once despatched a dog she fondly loved 
to the lethal chamber at Battersea, merely because all 
the hair had come off the poor animal’s tail I My 
trenchant sarcasms had depoetised her lover in a 
similar fashion ; their livid lightning had revealed 
the baldness, the glaring absurdity of the very stanzas 
which once had filled her eyes with delicious tears ; 
he was dismissed, and soon disappeared altogether 


144 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE, 


from the circles which I had (in perfect innocence) 
rendered impossible to him. 

Notwithstanding this, Miss Waverley’s first senti- 
ments towards me were scarcely, oddly enough, of 
unmixed gratitude. I represented the rod, and a very 
commendable feeling of propriety made her unwilling 
to kiss me on a first interview, though, as our inti- 
macy advanced — well, there are subjects on which I 
claim the privilege of a manly reticence. 

I hasten over, then, the intermediate stages of 
antipathy, fear, respect, interest, and adoration. In 
me she recognised an intellect naturally superior, too 
indifferent and unambitious to give life to its own 
imaginings — too honest, too devoted to humanity, to 
withhold merited condemnation from those of others. 
I was the radiant sun whose scorching beams melted 
the wax from the pinions of many a modern Icarus ; 
or, to put the metaphor less ingeniously, the shining 
light in which, by an irresistible impulse of self- 
destruction, the poetical and artistic moths flew and 
incontinently frizzled. 

One trait in my character which Iris valued above 
all others was the caution with which I habitually 
avoided all associations of a ridiculous nature ; for it 
was my pride to preserve a demeanour of unsullied 
dignity under circumstances which would have been 
trying, if not fatal, to an ordinary person. So we 
became engaged ; and if, pecuniarily speaking, the 
advantage of the union inclined to my side, I cannot 
consider that I was the party most benefited by the 
transaction. 

It was soon after this happy event that Iris entreated 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 


H5 

from me, as a gift, a photograph of myself. I could 
not help being struck by this instance of feminine 
parsimony with regard to small disbursements, since, 
for the trifling sum of one shilling, it was perfectly 
open to her to procure an admirable presentment of 
me at almost any stationer s ; for in obedience to a 
widely expressed demand, I had already more than 
once undergone the ordeal by camera. 

But no ; she professed to desire a portrait more 
peculiarly her own — one that should mark the precise 
epoch of our mutual happiness — a caprice which re- 
minded me of the Salvation Army recruit who was 
photographed, by desire, “before and after conver- 
sion ; ” and I demurred a little, until Iris insisted with 
such captivating pertinacity that — although my per- 
sonal expenses (always slightly in excess of my 
income) had been further swelled since my engage- 
ment by the innumerable petits soins expected by an 
absurd custom from every lover — I gave way at 
length. 

It was her desire that my portrait should form a 
pendant to one of herself which had been recently 
taken by a fashionable photographer, and I promised 
to see that this wish should be gratified. It is pos- 
sible that she expected me to resort to the same artist ; 
but there were considerations which induced me to 
avoid this, if I could. To the extent of a guinea (or 
even thirty shillings) I could refuse her nothing ; but 
every one knows what sums are demanded by a 
photographer who is at all in vogue. I might, to be 
sure, as a public character, have sat without being 
called upon for any consideration, beyond the right 
10 


TAKEN’ B Y SURPRISE. 


146 

to dispose of copies of my photograph ; but I felt that 
Iris would be a little hurt if I took this course, and 
none of the West-end people whom I consulted in the 
matter quite saw their way to such an arrangement 
just then. There was a temporary lull, they assured 
me, in the demand for likenesses of our leading literary 
men, and I myself had been photographed within too 
recent a period to form any exception to the rule. 

So, keeping my promise constantly in mind, I 
never entered a secluded neighbourhood without being 
on the look-out for some unpretending photographic 
studio which would combine artistic excellence with 
moderate charges. 

And at last I discovered this photographic phoenix, 
whose nest, if I may so term it, was in a retired 
suburb which I do not care to particularise. Upon 
the street level was a handsome plate-glass window 
in which, against a background of dark purple hang- 
ings and potted ferns, were displayed cartes, cabinets, 
and groups, in which not even my trained faculties 
could detect the least inferiority to the more costly 
productions of the West-end, while the list of prices 
that hung by the door was conceived in a spirit of 
exemplary modesty. After a brief period of hesita- 
tion I stepped inside, and, on stating my wish to be 
photographed at once, was invited by a very civil 
youth with a slight cast in his eye to walk upstairs, 
which I accordingly did. 

I mounted flight after flight of stairs, till I event- 
ually found myself at the top of the house, in an 
apartment pervaded by a strong odour of chemicals, 
and glazed along the roof and the whole of one side 


TAKEN B Y SURPRISE. 


147 


with panes of a bluish tint. It was empty at the 
moment of my entrance, but, after a few minutes, the 
photographer burst impetuously in — a tall young man 
with long hair and pale eyes, whose appearance 
denoted a nervous and high-strung temperament. 
Perceiving him to be slightly overawed by a certain 
unconscious dignity in my bearing, which frequently 
does produce that effect upon strangers, I hastened to 
reassure him by discriminating eulogies upon the 
specimens of his art that I had been inspecting below, 
and I saw at once that he was readily susceptible to 
flattery. 

“You will find me,” I told him frankly, “a little 
more difficult to satisy than your ordinary clientele ; 
but, on the other hand, I am peculiarly capable of 
appreciating really good work. Now I was struck at 
once by the delicacy of tone, the nice discrimination of 
values, the atmosphere, gradation, feeling, and sur- 
face of the examples displayed in your window.” 

He bowed almost to the ground ; but having taken 
careful note of his prices, I felt secure in commend- 
ing him, even to the verge of extravagance ; and be- 
sides, does not the artistic nature demand the stimu- 
lus of praise to enable it to put forth its full powers 

He inquired in what style I wished to be taken, 
whether full-length, half-length, or vignette. “I 
will answer you as concisely as possible,” I said. “I 
have been pressed, by one whose least preference is 
a law to me, to have a photograph of myself executed 
which shall form a counterpart or pendant, as it were, 
to her own. I have, therefore, taken the precaution 
to bring her portrait with me for your guidance. 


TAKEN B Y SURPRISE. 


148 

You will observe it is the work of a firm in my opin- 
ion greatly overrated — Messrs. Lenz, Kamerer, & Co. ; 
and, while you will follow it in style and the dispo- 
sition of the accessories, you will, I make no doubt, 
produce, if you take ordinary pains, a picture vastly 
superior in artistic merit.” 

This, as will be perceived, was skilfully designed 
to put him on his mettle, and rouse a useful spirit of 
emulation. He took the portrait of Iris from my 
hands and carried it to the light, where he examined 
it gravely in silence. 

“I presume,” he said at length, “that I need 
hardly tell you I cannot pledge myself to produce a 
result as pleasing as this — under the circumstances.” 

“That,” I replied, “ rests entirely with you. If you 
overcome your natural diffidence, and do yourself 
full justice, I see no reason why you should not 
obtain something even more satisfactory.” 

My encouragement almost unmanned him. He 
turned abruptly away and blew his nose violently 
with a coloured silk handkerchief. 

“Come, come,” I said, smiling kindly, “you see 
I have every confidence in you — let us begin. I 
don’t know, by the way,” I added, with a sudden 
afterthought, “whether in your leisure moments you 
take any interest in contemporary literature ? ” 

“I — I have done so in my time,” he admitted; 
“ not very lately.” 

“Then,” I continued, watching his countenance 
with secret amusement for the spasm I find this an- 
nouncement invariably produces upon persons of any 
education, “ it may possibly call up some associations 


TAKEN B Y SURPRISE, 


149 

in your mind if I tell you that I am perhaps better 
known by my self-conferred sobriquet of ‘Vitriol/ 
Evidently I had to do with a man of some intelli- 
gence — I obtained an even more electrical effect than 
usual. “ ^Vitriol!' ” he cried, “ not surely Vitriol, the 
great critic ? ” 

“ The same,” I said carelessly. “ I thought I had 
better mention it.” 

“You did well,” he rejoined, “very well! Par- 
don my emotion — may I wring that hand .? ” 

It is not my practice to shake hands with a photo- 
grapher, but I was touched and gratified by his boyish 
enthusiasm, and he seemed a gentlemanly young 
fellow too, so I made an exception in his favour; 
and he did wring my hand — hard. 

“So you are Vitriol?” he repeated in a kind of 
daze, “and you have sought me out — me, of all peo- 
ple in the world — to have the honour of taking your 
photograph I ” 

“That is so,” I said, “but pardon me if I warn you 
that you must not allow your head to be turned by 
what is, in truth, due to the merest accident. ” 

“ But what an accident 1 ” he cried ; “ after what I 
have learnt I really could not think of making any 
charge for this privilege ! ” 

That was a creditable and not unnatural impulse, 
and I did not check it. “You shall take me as often 
as you please,” I said, “and for nothing.” 

“ And may I,” he said a little timidly — “ would you 
give me permission to exhibit the results ? ” 

“ If I followed my own inclinations,” I replied, “I 
should answer ‘Certainly not.' But perhaps I have 


150 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 


no right to deprive you of the advertisement, and 
still less to withhold my unworthy features from public 
comment. I may, for private reasons,” I added, 
thinking of Iris, “find it advisable to make some 
show of displeasure, but you need not fear my tak- 
ing any proceedings to restrain you.” 

“We struggling photographers must be so careful,” 
he sighed. “Suppose the case of your lamented 
demise — it would be a protection if I had some writ- 
ten authority under your hand to show your legal 
representatives. ” 

Actio perso7ialis moritur cum personce,'’ I replied; 
“if my executors brought an action, they would find 
themselves non-suited.” (I had studied for the Bar 
at one period of my life. ) 

“Quite so,” he said, “ but they might drag me into 
court, nevertheless. I should really prefer to be on 
the safe side.” 

It did not seem unreasonable, particularly as I had 
not the remotest intention either of bringing an action 
or dying ; so I wrote him a hasty memorandum to 
the effect that, in consideration of his photographing 
me free of charge (I took care to put that in), I under- 
took to hold him free from all molestation or hin- 
drance whatever in respect of the sale and circulation 
of all copies resulting from such photographing as 
aforesaid. 

“ Will that do ? ” I said as I handed it to him. 

His eyes gleamed as he took the document. “It 
is just what I wanted, ” he said gratefully ; ‘ ‘ and now, 
if you will excuse me, I will go and bring in a few 
accessories, and then we will get to work.” 


TAKEN B Y SURPRISE. 


151 

He withdrew in a state of positive exultation leav- 
ing me to congratulate myself upon the happy chance 
which had led me to his door. One does not dis- 
cover a true artist every day, capjable of approaching 
his task in a proper spirit of reverence and enthu- 
siasm ; and I had hardly expected, after my previous 
failures, to be spared all personal outlay. My sole 
regret, indeed, was that I had not stipulated for a 
share in the profits arising from the sale — which 
would be doubtless a large one ; but meanness is not 
one of my vices, and I decided not to press this 
point. 

Presently he returned with something which bulged 
inside his velvet jacket, and a heap of things which 
he threw down in a corner behind a screen. 

“A few little properties,’' he said; “we maybe 
able to introduce them by-and-by.” 

Then he went to the door and, with a rapid action, 
turned the key and placed it in his pocket. 

“You will hardly believe,” he explained; “how 
nervous I am on occasions of importance like this ; 
the bare possibility of interruption would render me 
quite incapable of doing myself justice.” 

I had never met any photographer quite so sensi- 
tive as that before, and I began to be uneasy about 
his success ; but I know what the artistic tempera- 
ment is, and, as he said, this was not like an ordinary 
occasion 

“ Before I proceed to business,” he said, in a voice 
that positively trembled, “I must tell you what an 
exceptional claim you have to my undying gratitude. 
Amongst the many productions which you have 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 


152 

visited with your salutary satire you may possibly 
recall a little volume of poems entitled ‘ Pants of 
Passion ' ? 

I shook my head good-humouredly. ‘ ‘ My good 
friend,” I told him, “if I burdened my memory with 
all the stuff I have to pronounce sentence upon, do 
you suppose my brain would be what it is ? ” 

He looked crestfallen. “No,” he said slowly, “I 
ought to have known — you would not remember, of 
course. But /do. I brought out those Pants. Your 
mordant pen tore them to tatters. You convinced me 
that I had mistaken my career, and, thanks to your 
monitions, I ceased to practise as a Poet, and became 
the Photographer you now behold ! ” 

“And I have known poets,” I said encouragingly, 
“who have ended far less creditably. For even an 
indifferent photographer is in closer harmony with 
nature than a mediocre poet.” 

“And I was mediocre, wasn’t I?” he inquired 
humbly. 

“So far as I recollect,” I replied (for I did begin to 
remember him now), “to attribute mediocrity to you 
would have been beyond the audacity of the grossest 
sycophant. ” 

‘ ‘ Thank you, ” he said ; ‘ ‘ you little know how you 
encourage me in my present undertaking — for you 
will admit that I can photograph ? ” 

“That,” I replied, “is intelligible enough, photo- 
graphy being a pursuit demanding less mental ability 
in its votaries than that of metrical composition, 
however halting.” 

“There is something very soothing about your 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE, 


153 

conversation,” he remarked ; “it heals my self-love — 
which really was wounded by the things you wrote. ” 

“ Pooh, pooh ! ” I said indulgently, “ we must all 
of us go through that in our time — at least all oiyou 
must go through it.” 

“Yes,” he admitted sadly, “but it ain’t pleasant, 
is it?” 

“Of that I have never been in a position to judge,” 
said I ; “but you must remember that your suffer- 
ings, though doubtless painful to yourself, are the 
cause, under capable treatment, of infinite pleasure 
and amusement to others. Try to look at the thing 
without egotism. Shall I seat myself on that chair I 
see over there ? ” 

He was eyeing me in a curious manner. “Allow 
me,” he said; “I always pose my sitters myself.” 
With that he seized me by the neck and elsewhere 
without the slightest warning, and, carrying me to 
the further end of the studio, flung me carelessly, 
face downwards, over the cane-bottomed chair to 
which I had referred. He was a strong athletic 
young man, in spite of his long hair — or might that 
have been, as in Samson’s case, a contributory cause ? 
I was like an infant in his hands, and lay across the 
chair, in an exceedingly uncomfortable position, gasp- 
ing for breath. ” 

“ Try to keep as limp as you can, please,” he said, 
“ the mouth wide open, as you have it now, the legs 
careless — in fact, trailing. Beautiful ! don’t move. ” 

And he went to the camera. I succeeded in partly 
twisting my head round. ‘ ' Are you mad ? ” I cried 
indignantly; “do you really suppose I shall con- 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 


154 

sent to go down to posterity in such a position as 
this ? " 

I heard a click, and, to my unspeakable horror, saw 
that he was deliberately covering me from behind the 
camera with a revolver — that was what I had seen 
bulging inside his pocket. 

I should be sorry to slay any sitter in cold blood,” 
he said, “but I must tell you solemnly, that unless 
you instantly resume your original pose — which was 
charming — you are a dead man ! ” 

Not till then did I realise the awful truth — I was 
locked up alone, at the top of a house, in a quiet 
neighbourhood, with a mad photographer ! Sum- 
moning to my aid all my presence of mind, I resumed 
the original pose for the space of forty-five hours — 
they were seconds really, but they seeined hours ; it 
was not needful for him to exhort me to be limp again 
— I was limper than the dampest towel ! 

“Thank you very much,” he said gravely as he 
covered the lens ; “I think that will come out very 
well indeed. You may move now.” 

I rose, puffing, but perfectly collected. “ Ila-ha,” 
I laughed in a sickly manner (for I felt sick), ‘ ‘ I — I 
perceive, sir, that you are a humorist.” 

“Since I have abandoned poetry,” he said as he 
carefully removed the negative to a dark place, “I 
have developed a considerable sense of quiet humour. 
You will find a large Gainsborough hat in that 
corner — might I trouble you to put it on for the next 
sitting? ” 

“Never!” I cried, thoroughly revolted. “Surely, 
with your rare artistic perception, you must be aware 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 


155 


that such a headdress as that (which is no longer 
worn even by females) is out of all keeping with my 
physiognomy. I will noi sit for my photograph in 
such a preposterous thing ! " 

“ I shall count ten very slowly/’ he replied pen- 
sively, “and if by the time I have finished you are 
not seated on the back of that chair, your feet crossed 
so as to overlap, your right thumb in the corner of 
your mouth, a pleasant smile on your countenance, 
and the Gainsborough hat on your head, you will 
need no more hats on this sorrowful earth. One — 
two ” 

I was perched on that chair in the prescribed atti- 
tude long before he had got to seven ! How can I 
describe what it cost me to smile, as I sat there 
under the dry blue light, the perspiration rolling in 
beads down my cheeks, exposed to the gleaming 
muzzle of the revolver, and the steady Gorgon glare 
of that infernal camera 

“That will be extremely popular,” he said, lower- 
ing the weapon as he concluded. “ Your smile, per- 
haps, was a little too broad, but the pose was very fresh 
and unstudied.” 

I have always read of the controlling power of the 
human eye upon wild beasts and dangerous maniacs, 
and I fixed mine firmly upon him now as I said 
sternly, “ Let me out at once — I wish to go.” 

Perhaps I did not fix them quite long enough ; 
perhaps the power of the human eye has been exag- 
gerated : I only know that for all the effect mine had 
on him they might have been oysters. 

“Not yet,” he said persuasively, “ not when we're 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 


156 

getting on so nicely. I may never be able to take you 
under such favourable conditions again.'’ 

That, I thought, I could undertake to answer for ; 
but who, alas ! could say whe’ther I should ever leave 
that studio alive.? For all I knew, he might spend 
the whole day in photographing me, and then, with a 
madman’s caprice, shoot me as soon as it became too 
dark to go on any longer ! The proper course to 
take, I knew, was to humour him, to keep him in a 
good temper, fool him to the top of his bent — it was 
my only chance. 

“Well,” I said, “perhaps you’re right. I — I’m in 
no great hurry. Were you thinking of taking me in 
some different style .? I am quite at your disposition. ” 

He brought out a small but stout property-mast, 
and arranged it against a canvas background of coast 
scenery. “ I generally use it for children in sailor 
costume,” he said, “ but I ihink it will bear your 
weight long enough for the purpose.” 

I wiped my brow. “You are not going to ask me 
to climb that thing ? ” I faltered. 

“Well,” he suggested, “if you will just arrange 
yourself upon the cross-trees in a negligent attitude, 
upside down, with your tongue protruded as if for 
medical inspection, I shall be perfectly satisfied.” 

I tried argument. “ I should have no objection in 
the world,” I said ; “it’s an excellent idea — only do 
sailors ever climb masts in that way .? Wouldn’t it 
be better to have the thing correct while we’re about 
it?” 

“ I was not aware that you were a sailor,” he said ; 
“are you?” 


TAKEN BY SURPRISE. 


157 

I was afraid to say I was, because I apprehended 
that, if I did, it might occur to him to put me through 
some still more frightful performance. 

^‘Come,” he said, “you wont compel me to shed 
blood so early in the afternoon, will you ? Up with 
you.” 

I got up, but, as I hung there, I tried to obtain a 
modification of some of the details. “ I don’t think,” 
I said artfully, “that I’ll put out my tongue — it’s 
rather overdone, eh.? Everybody is taken with his 
tongue out nowadays.” 

“ It is true,” he said, “but I am not well enough 
known in the profession yet to depart entirely from 
the conventional. Your tongue out as far as it will 
go, please.” 

‘ ‘ I shall have a rush of blood to the head, I know 
I shall,” I protested. 

‘ ‘ Look here, ” he said ; ‘ ^ am I taking this photo- 
graph, or are you ? ” 

There was no possible doubt, unfortunately, as to 
who was taking the photograph. I made one last 
remonstrance. “I put it to you as a sensible man,” I 
began ; but it is a waste of time to put anything to a 
raving lunatic as a sensible man. It is enough to say 
that he carried his point. 

“ I wish you could see the negative ! ” he said as he 
came back from his laboratory. “You were a little 
red in the face, but it will come out black, so it’s all 
right. That carte will be quite a novelty, I flatter 
myself. ” 

I groaned. However, this was the end ; I would 
get away now at all hazards, and tell the police that 


TAKEN B Y SURPRISE. 


158 

there was a dangerous maniac at large. I got down 
from the mast with affected briskness. ‘ ‘ Well, ’’ I said, 
“ I mustn’t take advantage of your good nature any 
longer. I’m exceedingly obliged to you for the — the 
pains you have taken. You will send all the photo- 
graphs to this address, please .? ” 

‘ ‘ Don’t go yet, ” he said. ‘ ‘ Are you an equestrian, 
by the way .? ” 

If I could only engage him in conversation I felt 
comparatively secure. 

‘‘Oh, I put in an appearance in the Row sometimes, 
in the season,” I replied; “and, while I think of it,” 
I added, with what I thought at the time was an 
inspiration, “if you will come with me now. I’ll show 
you my horse — you might take me on horseback, eh ? ” 
I did not possess any such animal, but I wanted to 
have that door unlocked. 

“Take you on horseback .? ” he repeated. “ That’s 
a good idea — I had rather thought of that myself. ” 

“Then come along and bring your instrument,” I 
said, ‘ ‘ and you can take me at the stables ; they’re 
close by.” 

“No need for that,” he replied cheerfully. “I’ll 
find you a mount here.” 

And the wretched lunatic went behind the screen 
and wheeled out a small wooden quadruped covered 
with large round spots ! 

“She’s a strawberry roan,” he said; “observe the 
strawberries. So, my beauty, quiet, then ! Now 
settle yourself easily in the saddle, as if you were in 
the Row, with your face to the tail. ” 

‘ ‘ Listen to me for one moment, ” I entreated tremu- 


TAKEN B Y SUEFRISE. 


159 

lously. “ I assure you that I am not in the habit of 
appearing in Rotten Row on a spotted wooden horse, 
nor does any one, I assure you — any one mount a 
horse of any description with his face towards the 
crupper ! If you take me like that, you will betray 
your ignorance — you will be laughed at ! '' 

When people tell you it is possible to hoodwink 
the insane by any specious show of argument, don’t 
believe them ; my own experience is that demented 
persons can be quite perversely logical when it suits 
their purpose. 

“Pardon me,” he said, ‘'you will be laughed at 
possibly — not I. I cannot be held responsible for 
the caprices of my clients. Mount, please; she’ll 
carry you perfectly.” 

“I will,” I said, “ if you’ll give me the revolver to 
hold. I — should like to be done with a revolver. ” 

“I shall be delighted to do you with a revolver,” 
he said grimly, “but not yet; and if I lent you the 
weapon now, I could not answer for your being able 
to hold the horse as well — she has never been broken 
in to firearms. I’ll hold the revolver. One — two — 
three. ” 

I mounted ; why had I not disregarded the expense 
and gone to Lenz & Kamerer ? Lenz does not pose 
his customers by the aid of a revolver. Kamerer, I 
was sure, would not put his patrons through these 
degrading tomfooleries. 

He took more trouble over this than any of the 
others ; I was photographed from the back, in front, 
and in profile ; and if I escaped being made to appear 
abjectly ridiculous, it can only be owing to the tragic 


1 6o TAKEN B y SUBFRISE, 

earnestness which the consciousness of my awful 
situation lent to my expression. 

As he took the last, I rolled off the horse com- 
pletely prostrated. “I think,’' I gasped faintly, “I 
would rather be shot at once — without waiting to be 
taken in any other positions. I really am not equal 
to any more of this ! ” (He was quite capable, I felt, 
of photographing me in a perambulator, if it once 
occurred to him ! ) 

“Compose yourself,” he said soothingly, “I have 
obtained all I wanted. I shall not detain you much 
longer. Your life, I may remark, was never in any 
imminent danger, as this revolver is unloaded. I 
have now only to thank you for the readiness with 
which you have afforded me your co-operation, and 
to assure you that early copies of each of the photo- 
graphs shall be forwarded for Miss Waverley’s in- 
spection. ” 

“ Miss Waverley ! ” I exclaimed ; “ stay, how do 
you know that name ? ” 

“ If I mistake not, it was her photograph that you 
kindly brought for my guidance. I ought to have 
mentioned, perhaps, that I once had the honour of 
being engaged to her — until you (no doubt from the 
highest motives) invested my little gift of song with 
a flavour of unromantic ridicule. That ridicule I am 
now enabled to repay, with interest calculated up to 
the present date.” 

“So you are Iris’s poet!” I burst out, for, some- 
how, I had not completely identified him till that 
moment. “You scoundrel I do you think I shall 
allow you to circulate those atrocious caricatures with 


TAKEN B Y SURPRISE, 


i6i 


impunity ? No, by heavens ! my solicitor shall ” 

‘‘I rely upon the document you were kind enough 
to furnish,’’ he said quietly. “ I fear that any legal 
proceedings you may resort to will hardly avert the 
publicity you seem to fear. Allov/ me to unfasten the 
door. Good-bye ; mind the step on the first landing. 
Might I beg you to recommend me amongst your 
friends ? ” 

I went out without another word ; he was mad, of 
course, or he would not have devised so outrageous 
a revenge for a fancied injury, but he was cunning 
enough to be my match. I knew too well that if I 
took any legal measures, he would contrive to shift 
the whole burden of lunacy upon me. I dared not 
court an inquiry fdr many reasons, and so I was com- 
pelled to pass over this unparalleled outrage in silence. 

Iris made frequent inquiries after the promised 
photograph, and I had to parry them as well as I 
could — which was a mistake in judgment on my part, 
for one afternoon while I was actually sitting with her, 
a packet arrived addressed to Miss Waverley. 

I did not suspect what it might contain until it was 
too late. She recognised that photographs were inside 
the wrappings, which she tore open with a cry of 
rapture — and then ! 

She had a short fainting fit when she saw the 
Gainsborough hat, and as soon as she revived, the ex- 
traordinary appearance I presented upside down on 
the mast sent her into violent hysterics. By the time 
she was in a condition to look at the equestrian por- 
traits, she had grown cold and hard as marble. “Go,” 
she said, indicating the door, “I see I have been 
II 


i 62 


TAKEN B Y SURPRISE, 


wasting my affection upon a vulgar and heartless 
buffoon ! ” 

I went — for she would listen to no explanations ; 
and indeed I doubt whether, even were she to come 
upon this statement, it would serve to restore my 
tarnished ideal in her estimation. But, though I have 
lost her, I am naturally anxious (as I said when I 
began) that the public should not be misled into 
drawing harsh conclusions from what, if left unex- 
plained, may doubtless have a singular appearance. 

It is true that, up to the present, I have not been 
able to learn that any of those fatal portraits have 
absolutely been exposed for sale, though I direct my 
trembling steps almost every day to Regent Street, 
and search the windows of the Stereoscopic Company 
with furtive and foreboding eyes, dreading to be con- 
fronted with presentments of myself — Bedell Cruncher 
‘‘Vitriol,” the great critic ! — lying across a chair in a 
state of collapse, sucking my thumb in a Gains- 
borough hat, or bestriding a ridiculous wooden horse 
with my face towards its tail ! 

But they cannot be long in coming out now ; and 
my one hope is that these lines may appear in print 
in time to forestall the prejudice and scandal which 
are otherwise inevitable. At all events, now that the 
world is in possession of the real facts, I am entitled 
to hope that the treatment to which I have been sub- 
jected will excite the indignation and sympathy it 
deserves. 


PALEFACE AND EEDSKIN. 


A COMEDY-STORY FOR GIRLS AND BOYS 


ACT THE FIRST. 

WHERE IS THE ENEMY ? 

It was a very hot afternoon, and Hazel, Hilary, and 
Cecily Jolliffe were sitting under the big cedar on the 
lawn at The Gables. Each had her racket by her 
side, and the tennis-court lay, smooth and inviting, 
close by ; but they did not seem inclined to play just 
then, and there was something in the expression of all 
three which indicated a common grievance. 

“Well,” said Hazel, the eldest, who was nearly 
fourteen, “ we need not have excited ourselves about 
the boys’ holidays, if we had only known. They 
don’t give us much of their society — why, we haven’t 
had one single game of cricket together yet ! ” 

“And then to have the impudence to tell us that 
they didn’t care much about our sort of cricket ! ” said 
Hilary, “when I can throw up every bit as far as 
Jack, and it takes. Guy three overs to bowl me ! It’s 
beastly cheek of them.” 

Hilary !” cried Cecily, “ what would mother say 
if she heard you talk like that ? ” 

“ Oh, it’s the holidays ! ” said Hilary lazily. “Be- 
sides, it is a shame ! They would have played with 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


164 

US just as they used to, if it hadn't been for that 
Clarence Tinling. ” 

“Yes,” Hazel agreed, “ he hates cricket. I do 
believe that’s the reason why he invented this silly 
army, and talked Jack and^Guy into giving up every- 
thing for it.” 

“They haven’t any will of their own, poor things,” 
said Hilary. 

“You forget, Hilary,” put in Cecily, “Tinling is 
the guest. They ought to give way to him.” 

“ Well,” said Hilary, “it’s ridiculous for great boys 
who have been two terms at school to go marching 
about with swords and guns. Big babies ! ” 

Perhaps there was a little personal feeling at the 
bottom of this, for she had offered herself for enlist- 
ment, and had been sternly rejected on the ground of 
her sex. 

“I wish he would go, I know that,” said Hazel, 
making a rather vicious little chop at her shoe with 
her racket ; “ those boys talk about nothing but their 
stupid army from morning to night. Uncle Lambert 
says they make him feel quite gunpowdery at lunch. 
And what do you think is the last thing they’ve done? 
— put up a great fence all round their tent, and shut 
themselves up there all day ! ” 

“Except when they’re sentries and hide,” put in 
Hilary ; “ they’re always jumping up somewhere and 
wanting you to give the countersign. It isn’t like 
home, these holidays ! ” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Cecily, “it makes things 
safer, you know. ” 

“ Duffer, Cis ! ” cried Hilary contemptuously, for 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 165 

Cecily had appointed herself professional peacemaker 
to the family, and her efforts were about as successful 
as such domestic offices ever are. 

“Look out!” cried Hilary presently; “they’re 
coming. Don’t let’s take the least notice of them. 
They hate that more than anything.” 

From the shrubbery filed three boys, the first and 
tallest of whom wore an imposing dragoon’s helmet 
with a crimson plume, and carried a sabretache and a 
drawn sword ; the other two had knapsacks and cross- 
belts, and wore red caps like those of the French 
army ; they carried guns on their shoulders. 

“ Halt 1 ’Tention 1 Dis-miss ! ” shouted the com- 
manding officer, and the army broke off with admi- 
rable precision. 

“ Don’t be alarmed, ” said the General considerately 
to the three girls ; “ the army is only out on fatigue 
duty.” 

“ Then wouldn’t the army like to sit down ? ” sug- 
gested Hilary, forgetting all about her recent proposal. 

“Ah, you don’t understand,” said General Tinling 
with some pity. “It’s a military term.” 

He was a pale, puffy boy, with reddish hair and 
freckles, who was evidently fully alive to the dignity 
of his position. 

“Suppose we let military things alone for a little 
while, ” said Hazel. “We want the army to come and 
play tennis. You will, won’t you. Jack and Guy? 
and Cis will umpire — she likes it.” 

“I don’t mind a game,” said Jack. 

“ I’ll play, if you like,” added Guy ; but he had 
forgotten that the General was a bit of a martinet. 


i66 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN, 


‘^That’s nice discipline,” he said. “I don’t know 
whether you know it ; but in some armies you’d be 
court-martialled for less than that. ” 

“Well, may we, then?” asked Guy a little im- 
patiently. 

“No salute now!” cried his superior. “I shall 
never make you fellows smart. Why at the Haver- 
sacks, last Easter, there were half a dozen of us and 
we drilled like machines. Of course you mayn’t play 
^ tennis — this is only a bivouac ; and it’s over now. 
Attention I The left wing of the force will occupy the 
shrubbery ; the right will push on and blow up the 
gate.” 

“ Which of us is the left wing ? ” inquired Guy. 

“You are, of course.” 

“Oh, all right ; only you said Jack was just now,” 
grumbled Guy, who was evidently a little disposed to 
rebel at being deprived of his tennis. 

“Look here,” said the General; “ either let’s do 
the thing thoroughly, or not do it at all. It’s no 
pleasure to me to be General, I can tell you ; and if I 
can’t have perfect discipline in the ranks — why, we 
might as well drop the army altogether! ” 

“ Oh, all right,” said Jack, who was a sweet-tem- 
pered boy, “ we won’t do it again.” 

And they went off to carry out their separate in- 
structions, Clarence Tinling remaining by the cedar. 

“I have to be a little sharp now and then,” he 
explained. ‘ ‘ Why, if I didn’t keep an iron rule over 
them, they’d be getting insubordinate in no time. 
You mustn’t think I’ve any objection to their playing 
tennis, or anything of that sort ; only discipline must 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 167 

be kept up ; though it seems severe, perhaps,, to you.” 

*^It doesn't seem to be half bad fun ioxyou, at all 
events,” said Hazel. 

‘‘ Of course,” added Hilary, whose cheeks were 
flushed and eyes suspiciously bright as she plucked 
all the blades of grass that were within her reach, 
“we’re glad if you're enjoying being here; but it’s a 
little slow for us girls. You might give the army 
a half-holiday now and then.” 

“An army, especially a small army, like ours,” 
said Clarence grandly, “ought to be constantly pre- 
pared for action ; else it's no use. Then, look at the 
protection it is. Why, we’ve just built a fortified 
place close to the kitchen garden, where you could 
all retire to if we were attacked ; and, properly pro- 
visioned, we could hold out for almost any time.” 

“Thank you,” said Hilary. “ I should feel a good 
deal safer in the box-room. And then, who’s going 
to attack us ” 

“Well, you never know,” replied Clarence ; “but, 
if they did come, it's something to feel we should be 
able to defend ourselves.” 

“Yes, Hilary,” Cecily remarked, “an army would 
certainly be a great convenience then.” 

“That would depend on what it did,” said her sis- 
ter. “It wouldn't be much of a convenience if it ran 
away.” 

“I don't think Jack and Guy would ever do that,” 
observed Hazel. 

“I suppose that means that you think I should?” 
inquired Clarence, who was quick at discovering per- 
sonal allusions. 


i68 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


I wasn’t thinking about you at all,” said Hazel, 
with supreme indifference ; “ we don’t know you well 
enough to say whether you’re brave or not — we do 
know our brothers.” 

There wouldn’t be much sense in my being the 
General if I wasn’t the bravest, would there?” he 
demanded. 

Well, as to that, you see,” retorted Hilary, “ we 
don’t see much sense in any of it. ” 

“Girls can’t be expected to see sense in anything,” 
he said sulkily. 

“At all events, no one can be expected to see 
bravery till there’s some danger,” said Hazel ; “and 
there isn’t the least I ” 

“That’s all you know about it; but I’ve something 
more important to do than stay here squabbling. I’m 
off to see what the army’s up to. ” And he marched 
off with great pomp. 

When he had disappeared, Hilary remarked frankly, 
“ Isn’t he a pig ? ” 

“I don’t think it’s nice to call our visitors ‘pigs,’ 
Hilary ! ” remonstrated Cecily, “ and he’s not really 
more greedy than most boys. ” 

“Don’t lecture, Cis. I didn’t mean he was that 
kind of pig — I said he was a pig. And he is ! ” said 
Hilary, not over lucidly. “ I wonder what Jack and 
Guy can see in him. I thought that when they wrote 
asking him to be invited, that he’d be sure to be such 
a jolly boy I ” 

“ He may be a jolly boy — at school,” was all that 
even the tolerant .Cecily could find to urge in his 
favour. 


PALEFACE A ATE REDSKm. 169 

** I believe,” said Hazel, “ that they’re not nearly 
so mad about him as they were — didn’t you notice 
about the tennis just now? ” 

“ He bullies them — that’s what it is,” explained 
Hilary; “only with talking-, I mean, of course, but 
he talks such a lot, and he will have, his own way, 
and, if they say anything, he reminds them he’s a 
visitor, and ought to be humoured. I wish it was any 
use getting Uncle Lambert to speak to him — but 
he’s so stupid I ” 

“Is he, though? ’’said a lazy voice from behind 
the cedar. 

‘‘Oh, Uncle Lambkin 1 ” cried Hilary, “I didn^t 
know you were there ! ” 

“ Don’t apologise,” was the answer. “ I know it 
must be a trial to have an uncle on the verge of im- 
becility — but bear with me. I am at least harm- 
less.” 

“Of course we know you’re really rather clever,” 
said Hazel, “but you are stupid about some things — 
you never interfere, whatever people do ! ” 

“ Don’t I, really ? ” said their uncle, as he disposed 
himself on his back, and tilted his hat over his nose ; 
“ you do surprise me ! What a mistake for a man to 
make, who has come down for perfect quiet ! Whom 
shall I begin to interfere with ? ” 

“Well, you might snub that horrid Tinling boy, 
instead of encouraging him, as you always do?” 

“Encourage him ! He’s got a fine flow of martial 
enthusiasm, and a good supply of military terms, and 
I listen when he gives me long accounts of thrilling 
engagements, when he came out uncommonly strong 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


170 

— and the enemy, so far as I can gather, never came 
out at all. Tm passive, because I can’t help myself; 
and then he amuses me in his way — that’s all. ” 

‘ ‘ Do you believe he’s brave, uncle ? ” 

“I only know that I saw him kill two wasps with 
his teaspoon,” was the reply. “ They don’t award 
the Victoria Cross for it— but it’s a thing I couldn’t 
have done myself.” 

“I should hope not!” exclaimed Hilary; ‘'but 
everybody knows you’re a coward,” she added (she 
did not intend this remark to be taken seriously), 
“and you’re awfully lazy. Still, there are some 
things you might do 1 ” 

‘ ‘ If that means fielding long-leg till tea-time, I re- 
spectfully disagree. Irreverent girls, have you never 
been taught that a digesting uncle is a very solemn 
and sacred thing .? ” 

“ Now you are going to be idiotic again ! But as 
to cricket — why, you must know that we never get a 
game now ! And next summer I shall be too old to 
play ! ” 

“I never mean to be too old for cricket,” said Hilary, 
with conviction ; “but we’ve had none for weeks, 
uncle, positive weeks 1 ” 

“Quite right, too!” observed Uncle Lambert, 
sleepily. “ Not a game for girls — only spoils your 
hands — do you think I want a set of nieces with paws 
like so many glovers’ signs ? ” 

“That’s utter nonsense,” said Hazel, calmly “be- 
cause we always play in gloves. Mother makes us. 
At least, when we did play. Now the boys will only 
play soldiers, and if they do happen to be inclined 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


171 

for a set at tennis, Clarence comes up and orders 
them off as pickets or outposts, or something ! ” 

“But he’s not Bismarck or Boulanger, is he? I 
always understood this was a free country.” 

“You know what Guy and. Jack are — they can’t 
bear their visitor to think he isn’t welcome.” 

“Well, they seem to have made him feel very much 
at home — but it isn’t my business ; if they choose to 
declare the house in a state of seige, and turn the 
garden into a seat of war, I can’t help it — I’d rather 
they wouldn’t, but it’s your mother’s affair, not mine ! ” 
And he closed the discussion by lighting a cigarette, 
and relapsing into a contented silence. 

Uncle Lambert was short and stout, with a round 
red face, a heavy auburn moustache, and little green 
eyes which never seemed to notice anything. His 
nieces were fond of him, though they often wished 
he would pay them the occasional compliment of 
talking sensibly ; but he never did, and he spent all 
his time at The Gables in elaborately doing nothing 
at all. 

Clarence Tinling had gone off in a decided huff— 
so much so indeed that he left his devoted army to 
carry out their rather misty manoeuvres without any 
help from him. He was beginning to find a falling- 
off in their docility of late, which was no doubt owing 
to their sisters ; it was excessively annoying to him 
that those girls should be so difficult to convince of 
the protective value of a fortress, and especially that 
they should decline to take his own superior nerve 
and courage for granted. And the worst of it was, 
nothing but some imminent danger was ever likely to 


172 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


convince them, such were their prejudice and narrow- 
mindedness. 

Later that afternoon the family assembled for tea 
in the cool, shady dining-room ; Mrs. Jolliffe, with 
a gentle anxiety on her usually placid face, sat at the 
head (Colonel Jolliffe was away shooting in the North 
just then). ‘‘Where are all the boys?” she said, 
looking round the table. ‘ ‘ Why don’t they come in ? ” 

“ It’s no use asking us, mother,” said Hilary, “we 
see so very little of them ever. ” 

“ Very likely they are washing their hands,” said 
her mother. 

“ So like them ! ” murmured Uncle Lambert in confi- 
dence to his tea-cake. ‘ ‘ But here’s the noble General, 
at all events. Well, Field Marshal, what have you 
done with the Standing Army ? ” 

Tinling addressed himself to his hostess. “Oh, 
Mrs. Jolliffe, I’m so sorry I was late, but I had just to 
run round to the stables for a minute. Oh, the other 
two ? They’re on duty — they’re guarding the camp. 
In fact, I can’t stay here very long myself. ” 

“But the poor dear boys must have their tea!” 
cried Mrs. Jolliffe. 

“ Well, you know,” said their veteran officer as he 
helped himself to the marmalade, “I don’t think a 
little roughing it is at all a bad thing for them — teaches 
them that a soldier’s life is not all jam.” 

“ No,” said Hazel, “the General^ seems to get most 
of that. ” 

All Clarence said was : “I’ll trouble one of you girls 
for the tea cake.” 

“ I don’t think it’s fair that the poor army should 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


m 

‘rough/ as you call it, while you stuff, Clarence,” 
said Hazel, indignantly. Mustn’t they come in to 
tea, mother ? It is such nonsense ! ” 

“Yes, dear, run and call them in,” said Mrs. 
Jolliffe. ‘ ‘ I can’t let my boys go without their meals, 
Clarence, it’s so bad for them. ” 

“ It’s not discipline,” said the chief; “still, if they 
must come, you had better take them this permit from 
me.” And he scribbled a line on a scrap of paper, 
which he handed to Hazel, who received it with the 
utmost disdain. 

Hazel crossed the lawn and over a little rustic 
bridge to the kitchen garden and hothouses, beyond 
which was the paddock, where the fortress had been 
erected. It was a very imposing construction, built, 
with some help from the village carpenter, of portions 
of some disused fencing. The stockade had loop- 
holes in it, and above the top she could see a flutter- 
ing flag and the point of a tent. Jack was perched 
up on a kind of look-out, and Guy was pacing 
solemnly before the covered entrance with a musket 
of very mild aspect over his shoulder. 

‘ ‘ Who goes there ? ” he called out, some time after 
recognising her. 

Hazel vouchsafed no direct reply to this challenge. 
“You’re to come in to tea directly,'' she announced 
in her most peremptory tone. 

“Advance, and give the countersign,” said the 
sentinel. 

“ Don’t be a donkey ! ” returned Hazel, tossing 
back her long brown hair impatiently. 

Guy levelled his firearm. It is exasperating when 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


174 

a sister can’t enter into the spirit of the thing better 
than that. Who ever heard of a sentry being told, 
on challenging, “not to be a donkey ” ? “My orders 
are to fire on all suspicious persons,” he informed her. 

Hazel stopped both her ears. “No, Guy, please 
— it makes me jump so.” 

“ There’s no cap on,” said he. 

“ Then there’s a ramrod, or a pea, or something 
horrid,” she objected ; “do turn it the other way.” 

“ Hazel’s all right, Guy,” said Jack, in rebuke of 
this excessive zeal ; ‘ ‘ we can let her pass. ” 

“ As if I wanted to pass ! ” exclaimed Hazel. “ I 
only came to bring you back to tea ; and if you’re 
afraid to go without leave, there’s a permission from 
Clarence for you.” 

“ Oh ! come in and have a look now you’re here,” 
said the garrison more hospitably. “You can’t think 
how jolly the inside is.” 

“ Well, if I must,” she said ; though, as a matter of 
fact, she was exceedingly curious to see the interior 
of the stronghold. 

“It’s like the ones in ‘Masterman Ready,’ and 
‘Treasure Island,’ you see,” explained Jack proudly. 

‘ ‘ And it’s pierced for musketry, too ; we could open 
a withering fire on besiegers before they could come 
near us.” 

“They would have to be rather stupid to want to 
besiege this, wouldn’t they ? ” said Hazel. 

“I don’t see that — besiegers must besiege some- 
thing. And it is snug, isn’t it, now ? ” 

Hazel was secretly much impressed. In the centre 
of the enclosure was the commander s tent, with a 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN, 


175 

lantern fixed at the pole for night watches ; and rugs 
and carpets were strewn about ; at one of the angles 
of the palisading was the look-out — an elaborate erec- 
tion of old wine-cases and egg-boxes— on the top of 
which was fixed a seven-and-sixpenny telescope that 
commanded the surrounding country for quite a hun- 
dred yards. 

She was not the person, however, to go into rap- 
tures ; she merely smiled a rather teasing little smile, 
and said, “ Mar-vellous ! but somehow, whatever 
sarcasm underlay this was accepted by both boys as 
a tribute. 

“You can see now,” said Guy, in a reasonable 
tone, ‘ ‘ that there wouldn’t have been room here for 
all you girls — now, would there } ” 

“Girls are always in the way — everywhere,” said 
Hazel, with a reproachful inflection which was quite 
lost upon her brothers. 

“I knew you’d be sensible about it,” said Jack; 
“ you can’t think what fun we have in here — especially 
at night, when the lantern’s lit. Hallo ! there’s some 
one calling.” 

A shrill whistle sounded from the kitchen garden, 
and, a moment after, a stone came flying over the 
stockade, and was stopped by the canvas of the 
tent. 

“ That’s cool cheek ! ” said Jack ; “get up and re- 
connoitre, Guy — quick ! ” 

Guy mounted the scaffold, and brought the tele- 
scope to bear upon the immediate neighbourhood 
with admirable coolness and science — but no par- 
ticular result. 


paleface and REESKlN, 


176 

“We shall have to scour the bush and see if we 
can find any traces of the enemy/' said he with in- 
finite relish. 

“Was that the stone? "said Hazel, pointing to 
one that lay at the foot of the fence ; “ because there 
seems to be some paper wrapped round it.” 

“ So there is I ” said Jack, proceeding to unfold it. 
Presently he exclaimed, ‘ ‘ I say ! ” 

“What is it now ? ” asked Hazel. 

“Nothing for you— it's private ! ” said Jack, mys- 
teriously. “ Here, Guy, come down and look at this.” 

Guy read it and whistled. “We must report this 
to the General at once,” he said gravely. 

Both boys were very solemn, and yet had a certain 
novel air of satisfied importance. 

“ Shall we tell her ? ” asked Guy. 

“She must know it some time,” returned Jack; ' 
“we'll break it by degrees. — We've just had notice 
that we're going to be attacked by Red Indians, 
Hazel ; don't be alarmed.” 

“I'll try not to be,” she said, conquering a very 
strong inclination to laugh. She saw that they took 
it quite seriously ; and, though she had at once sus- 
pected that some one in the village was playing them 
a trick, she did not choose to enlighten them. Hazel 
had a malicious desire to see what the General would 
do. “I don’t believe he will like the idea at all,” she 
said to herself. ‘ ‘ What fun it will be ! ” 

Hazel’s expectations seemed about to. be fulfilled ; 
for already she could hear steps on the plank of the 
little bridge, and in another minute the General him- 
self entered the fortress. 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


177 

“Isay, you fellows,” he began, “this is too bad 
— no one on guard, and a girl inside ! Why, she 
might be a spy for anything you could tell I ” 

‘ ‘ Thank you, Clarence ! ” said Hazel ; for this in- 
sinuation was rather trying to a person of her dignity. 

“I say. General,” began Jack, “never mind about 
rowing us now ; weVe some queer news to report. 
This has just fallen into our hands.” 

Hazel watched Tinling closely as he read the paper. 
It was grimy, and printed in lead pencil, and con- 
tained these words : “ Be on the lukout. Red In- 

GIANS ON THE WORPATH. I HERD THEM SAYING THEY MENT 
TO ATACK YURE FORT AT NITEFAL. FrOM A FREND.” 

She was soon compelled to own that she had done 
him a great injustice. He was certainly as far as 
possible from betraying the slightest fear ; on the con- 
trary, his eye seemed actually to brighten with sat- 
isfaction. He behaved exactly as all heroes in books 
of adventure do on such occasions — he went through 
it twice carefully, and then inquired at what time the 
warning had arrived. 

“About five minutes ago. Round a stone,” an- 
swered Guy, with true military conciseness. 

“This will be a bad business,” observed the Gene- 
ral, his face brightening with the joy of battle. “ V/e 
have no time to spare — we must give these demons 
a lesson they will not forget ! ” (this was out of the 
books). “ Look to your arms, my men, and see that 
we are provisioned for a siege (you might get the 
cook to give us some of that shortbread, and the rest 
of the cake we had at tea. Private Jack). We cannot 
tell to what straits we may be reduced.” 

12 


17 $ PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 

‘‘Then,” inquired Hazel demurely, ‘‘you mean 
to stay here and fight them ? 

“To the last gasp ! ” said the General. 

Hazel liked him better then than she had done 
since his first arrival. 

“ He really is a plucky boy after all,” she thought. 
“ I wonder if it will last ? ” 


ACT THE SECOND. 

WHERE IS THE ARMY ? 

The General’s self-possession and resource were 
indeed remarkable. 

“We ought to have a cannon,” he said ; “there’s 
a big roll of matting somewhere in the house. If we 
got that, and widened a loophole, and shoved it 
through, it would look just like the muzzle of a cannon 
in the dark. ” 

“Would that frighten a Red Indian much? ” asked 
Hazel. 

“ Not if he knew what it was, perhaps ; but who’s 
going to tell him ? Jack, just run up to the house, 
like a good fellow, and see if you can find it, will you ? 
You can go with him, Guy.” 

“You seem rather to like the idea of being attacked,” 
said Hazel, when she and Clarence were alone to- 
gether. He was gratified to notice the new friendli- 
ness in her voice. 

“Well, you see,” he explained loftily, “I don’t 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


179 

suppose Fm pluckier than most people, but it just 
happens that I’m not afraid of Red Indians, that’s 
all ; when I saw all those at Buffalo Bill’s I wasn’t 
even excited : it’s constitutional, I fancy.” He 
always modelled his talk a good deal upon books, and 
a crisis like this naturally brought out his largest 
language. 

“I’d better see you safe back to the house, I think,” 
he added ; “I don’t expect them for an hour yet, but 
you can never depend on savages — they might be 
lurking about the grounds already, for what we know.” 

And, although Hazel had her own private ideas 
about the reality of the danger, she was struck by his 
coolness and courage, for which, whether justified or 
not by the occasion, she was quite fair-minded enough 
to give him due credit. 

Meanwhile, the other two boys, bursting with ex- 
citement, had rushed up to the verandah, under which 
their mother and uncle were sitting. 

“ Mother ! Uncle Lambert ! What do you think? 
Our camp is going to be attacked this very night by 
Indians ! ” 

“Yes, dears,” said Mrs. Jolliffe, serenely; “but 
have you had your teas yet ? ” 

Trifles such as these harrow the martial soul more 
than conflicts. 

“But, mother, did you hear what we said? The 
fort is to be stormed by Red Indians ! ” 

“Very well, dears, so long as you don’t make too 
much noise,” was the sole comment of this most 
provokingly placid lady. What she ought to have 
done was, of course, to throw down her work, raise 


i8o PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 

her eyes to the clouds, clasp her hands, and observe, 
in an agitated tone, “Heaven protect us! We are 
lost ! ” But few mothers are capable of really rising 
to emergencies of this kind. 

Hilary and Cecily had been playing tennis, and, 
overhearing the alarming news, came up to the steps 
of the verandah. “Did you say Red Indians were 
coming here ? 

Uncle Lambert shook his head lugubriously. “I 
always warned your father," he remarked ; “but he 
would come to live in Berkshire." 

“Why?" inquired Cecily. “Is Berkshire a bad 
place for Red Indians, uncle? ". 

“I should say it was one of the worst places in all 
Europe ! " he said solemnly. 

Both Hilary and Cecily had heard and read a good 
deal about Red Indians lately, and had also with their 
brothers, visited the American Exhibition, so that it 
did not strike either of them as unlikely just then that 
there should be a few scattered about in England, just 
as gipsies are. 

‘ ‘ But what are you going to do about it ? " they 
asked their brother. 

“ Lick ’em, of course ! ” said Guy. “ Now you see 
that an army is some use, after all." 

“Don’t be taken alive, there’s good boys,” advised 
their frivolous uncle, who seemed still unable to realise 
the extreme gravity of the occasion. “ Sell your lives 
as dearly as possible." 

“What is the use of telling them that, uncle? " ex- 
claimed Cecily. “They wouldn’t get the money; 
and do you think any of us would touch it ? How 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. iST 

can you talk in that horrid way ? Jack and Guy, don't 
go to that camp. Let the Indians have it, if they 
want to ; you can soon build another. " 

“You don’t understand,” said Jack, impatiently. 
“We can’t have a lot of Red Indians in our camp — it 
wouldn’t be safe for you.” 

“ Oh, I shall go and speak to Clarence,” she cried. 
“I’m sure he won’t want to fight them.” And she 
ran down to the end of the lawn, where he could be 
seen returning with Hazel. 

“I want to speak to you quite alone,” she said. 
“No, Hazel, it’s a secret,” and she drew him aside. 

“ Clarence,” she said, and her blue eyes were dark 
with fear, “ tell me — are the Indians really coming? ” 

“You can judge for yourself,” he said, and gave 
her the paper. “ We’ve just had this thrown over the 
stockade. It seems to have been written by somebody 
who is in their secrets.” 

“ How badly Red Indians do spell ! ” said Cecily, 
shuddering as she read. 

“It may be a white man’s writing,” he said; 
“perhaps a prisoner, or a confederate who repents.” 

‘ ‘ But Clarence, dear, ” entreated Cecily (ten minutes 
ago she would not have added the epithet), “you 
won’t stay out and sit up for them, will you ? ” 

“Do you think we’re a set of cowards?” he de- 
manded grandly. 

“Not you, Clarence; but — ^but Jack and Guy are 
not very big boys, are they ? I mean, they're a little 
too young to fight full-sized Indians.” 

“ There will be all sorts of sized Indians, I expect,” 
said Clarence. ‘ ' Of course, I don’t say they’ll come. 


1 82 PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 

They may think discretion’s the better part of valour 
when they find we’re prepared ; but I must say I an- 
ticipate an attack myself.” 

“I wish you would do without Jack and Guy. 
Couldn’t you } ” suggested Cecily. 

His eyes gleamed. “Cecily,” he said, “tell me 
the worst~the army are getting in a funk ? ” 

“ No,” she cried ; and then she resolved to sacrifice 
their reputation for their safety. ‘ ‘ At least, they 
haven’t said anything ; but I’m sure they’d feel more 
comfortable in the drawing-room. Can’t you order 
them to stay and guard us.? You’re General.” 

“And I am to face the foe alone?” he cried. 
“Well, I am older than them ” (I must decline to be 
responsible for the grammar of the characters of this 
story). “I have lived my life — I shall be the less 
missed. . . . Let it be as you say.” 

All this was strictly according to the books, and 
he enjoyed himself immensely. 

“Thank you, dear, dear Clarence. I’d no idea 
you were so noble and brave. Try not to let those 
Indians hit you.” 

“I cannot answer for the future,” he said; “but 
since you wish it I will do my best.” 

After all there was some good in girls. Here was 
one who said exactly the right things, without need- 
ing any prompting whatever. 

Cecily hunted up Jack and Guy, who were poking 
about in the house. “ You’re not to guard the stock- 
ade,” she announced, with ill-concealed triumph. 

“ Oh, aren’t we, though ? ” said Guy ; “who says 
so ? Not mother ! ” 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 183 

“ No — Clarence ; he said I was to tell you to go on 
duty in the drawing-room. ” 

“What bosh !” said Guy. “As if any Indians 
would come there ! I don’t care what Clarence says. 
I shall go in the stockade ! ” 

“ So shall I ! ” said Jack. “Now let’s get that piece 
of matting, and go down sharp — the evening star’s 
out already. ” 

Poor Cecily was in despair ; what was to be done 
when they were so obstinate as this .? 

“1 know where there’s some beautiful matting,” 
she said. 

“Where? Tell us, quick ! ” 

“Come with me, and I’ll show you.” She led the 
way along a corridor to the wing where the billiard- 
room was. “Wait till I see if it’s there still,” she 
said, and went into the billiard-room and looked 
around. “Yes, it is there,” she told them as she 
came out. 

“I don’t see it, Cecily ; where?” they cried from 
within. 

Cecily shut the door softly, and turned the key 
(which she had managed to abstract on entering) in 
the outer lock. 

“ It’s on the floor,” she cried through the keyhole ; 

‘ ‘ I didn’t tell a story — and don’t be angry, boys, dear, 
it’s all for your good ! ” 

Then, without waiting to hear their indignant out- 
cry, she scudded along the corridor and down the 
staircase, with the sounds of muffled shouts and kicks 
growing fainter behind her. 

‘ ‘ I don’t mind so much now, ” she thought ; ‘ ‘ they’ll 


1 84 PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 

be awfully angry when they come out — but the 
Indians will have gone by that time ! ” 

Clarence had already retreated to his stronghold 
when she entered the drawing-room. 

Everything seemed as usual ; Uncle Lambert, in 
evening dress, was playing desultory snatches from 
Ruddigore. Mrs. Jolliffe came down presently, and 
he took her in to dinner with one of his tiresome 
jokes. No one seemed at all anxious about poor 
Tinling, fighting all alone down in the paddock. 

She curled herself up on a settee by one of the 
open windows, and listened, trying to catch the 
sound of Indian yells. Hazel,” she said anxiously, 
“do you think the Indians will hurt Tinling? ” 

Hazel gave a little laugh. “I don’t think the 
army’s in any very great danger, Cis, ” she replied. 

“Hazel doesn’t believe there are any Indians at 
all,” explained Hilary. 

“Well,” said Cecily softly, “I’ve kept the army 
out of danger, whether there are or not ! ” 

But she felt relieved by her sister’s evident tran- 
quillity, and by and by, when Mrs. Jolliffe came in 
from the dining-room, and settled down with her em- 
broidery as if there were not the least chance of a 
savage coming whooping in the open window, Cecily 
almost forgot her fears. 

They came back in full force, however, as, a little 
later on, she heard a quick, light step on the gravel 
outside, and started with a little scream of terror. 
“Don’t tell them where the army are !” she cried; 
and then she saw that her ^ilarm was needless, for 
it was the gallant General who stepped into the room. 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


185 

Hazel looked up from the album which she was mak- 
ing for a children’s hospital, Hilary threw away her 
book, Mrs. Jollitfe had ceased to embroider, but that 
was because she was peacefully dozing. 

^‘Victory ! ” said Clarence, waving his sword. 

“Then they did come?” cried Cecily triumph- 
antly. 

“Rather ! ” he replied. “I couldn’t tell how many 
there were, but they were overcome with panic at 
the first discharge. I fancy these Indians had never 
heard firearms before.” 

“How funny that we shouldn’t have heard any 
now ! ” remarked Hazel, resting her chin on her palms, 
while her grey eyes had a rather mocking sparkle in 
them. 

“Not funny at all,” he said, “ considering the wind 
was the other way. I let them come on, and then 
poured a volley into the thickest part of their ranks — 
that made them waver, and then I made a sortie, and 
you should have j ust seen them scuttle ! ” 

“ I wish I had,” said Hazel, as she pasted another 
Christmas card into her album. ‘ ‘ And weren’t you 
wounded at' all ? ” 

“A mere scratch,” he said lightly (which is what 
book-heroes always say). 

“It looks as if you had been amongst the goose- 
berry-bushes,” said Hilary, examining his arm as he 
pulled up his sleeve. 

“ Does it ? Well, I only know it’s lucky for me 
there were no poisoned arrows.” 

“Oughtn’t you to have it burnt, though, Clarence, 
just in case ? ” suggested Cecily, in all good faith ; 


i86 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


^‘there^s sure to be a red-hot poker in the kitchen.” 

But Clarence was very decidedly of opinion that 
such a precaution was not necessary. 

“And you’re quite sure the Indians are all gone? ” 
she asked. 

“There isn’t one of ’em within miles,” he said con- 
fidently, “ I’ll answer for that.” 

“Then come upstairs with me, and we’ll let the 
army out. They’ll be in such a temper ! ” 

They found the two boys, who had tired of kicking 
and shouting by that time, sitting gloomily on the 
long seats in the dark. 

“Guy, dear — ^Jack,” said Cecily timidly, “ you can 
come out now. Clarence has beaten the Indians. ” 

^ ‘ Without us ? ” groaned Guy. ‘ ‘ Cecily, I’ll never 
speak to you again ! Tinling, I — we — you don’t 
think we funked, do you ? She locked us up here ! ” 

All the General’s native magnanimity came out now. 

“ We won’t say any more about it,” he said. “ It 
was rather a close shave, with only one man to do it 
all. But, there, I managed somehow, and perhaps it 
was just as well you weren’t there. The first rush 
was no joke, I can tell you.” 

Jack punched his own head with both hands. 

“Oh, it’s too bad!” he said — he was almost in 
tears. ‘ ‘ They’ll all think we deserted you 1 Did 
you kill many of them, Tinling ? ” 

“I didn’t see any corpses,” he replied; “but I 
shouldn’t be surprised if some of them died when they 
got home. ” 

“They may come again to-morrow night,” said 
Jack, more cheerfully. 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 187 

Not much fear of that — theyVe had their lesson. 
They were seized with utter panic.” 

“Which way did they go ?” asked Guy, evidently 
bent on pursuing them. 

“Oh, in all directions. But you wouldn’t catch 
them up now ; they ran too fast for me even ! ” 

“Then I shall go to bed,” said the entire army, in 
great depression. “It is a shame we couldn’t be 
there. Good-night, General.” And, pointedly ignor- 
ing poor Cecily, they marched off to their quarters. 
She looked wistfully after them. 

“ They’ll never forgive me — I know they won’t I ” 
she said to Tinling. 

“Don’t you mind,” he said, “you acted very 
wisely. And, after all, these raw young troops can 
never be depended on under fire, you know — I mean, 
under arrows.” 

Cecily drew herself up a little haughtily. 

“I locked them in because I didn’t want them to 
get hurt,” she said, “ not because I thought they’d be 
afraid. ” 

Uncle Lambert did not hear about the result of the 
engagement until the following day, but then, to 
make up for any delay, he heard a good deal about 
it. Even Clarence was not quite prepared for the 
enthusiasm he showed. 

“ Splendid, my boy, splendid ! ” he kept repeating, 
while he hit him rather hard on the back ; “ you’re a 
hero. A grateful country ought to give you the Bath 
for it. I shall take care this affair is generally 
known.” 

And the poor army looked on with hot cheeks and 


i88 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN, 


envious eyes. But for Cecily, they might have been 
heroes, too ! 

Even Hazel seemed to have understood that a 
really brilliant victory had been achieved ; she brought 
Tinling a magnificent flag of pink glazed calico, on 
which she had painted in crimson letters : ‘ Indians' 
Terror.'" 

'‘I did not think of making the motto “Seven at 
one blow," she said with a mischievous dimple. 

“ I like the other best,” said the General unsuspect- 
ingly. 

Jack and Guy went down to the camp as usual, but 
for some time they were in very low spirits, in spite 
of their commander s well-meant efforts to raise them. 

“You’ll do better next time," he said kindly. 

“But we’ve told you over and over again how it 
was ! " they would exclaim. 

“Yes, I know, I know. It’s all right. I’m not 
complaining : I never expected you to be as cool as I 
was, your first time." But even this did not seem to 
console the army to any large extent ; they hunched 
their shoulders and kicked pebbles about with great 
apparent interest. 

The fact was, they could not help seeing that they 
had lost their prestige. It was true that their mother 
and elder sister at least (in spite of the flag) did not 
seem to treat the past danger with all the seriousness 
it deserved. It even struck Jack and Guy sometimes 
that they were under the delusion that the whole 
thing had been only a new development of the game. 
But as the General said : “Even if that were so, it 
was kinder not to undeceive them. He certainly was 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


189 

contented to leave them in their error ; he knew well 
enough what he had had to go through — he did not 
like even now to think of his despair when he found 
he would have to face the danger all alone.” 

He was always making the army writhe by little 
unintentional reminders of this kind, and they had 
cruel misgivings that Uncle Lambert, though he was 
always quite kind and encouraging, did not in his 
heart believe that their unfortunate absence in the 
hour of peril was quite an accident on their part. 

How they longed for an opportunity of wiping out 
their disgrace, and how their hearts sank when Tin- 
ling, from the depths of his experience, declared it 
very improbable that the attack would ever again be 
renewed. In the school-stories, the good boy who 
refuses to fight when he is kicked, and is sent to 
Coventry as a coward, always gets a speedy chance 
to clear his character. Some one (generally the very 
boy who kicked him) falls into a mill-stream, or a 
convenient horse runs away, or else a mad but con- 
siderate bull comes into the play-ground — and the 
good boy is always at hand to dive, or hang on to the 
bridle and be dragged several yards in the dust, or 
slowly retreat backwards, throwing down first his hat 
and then his coat to amuse and detain the infuriated 
bull. 

But out of stories, unfortunately, as even Jack and 
Guy dimly perceived, things are not always arranged 
so satisfactorily. They might have to wait for weeks, 
perhaps months or years, before Uncle Lambert fell 
into the fish-pond — and, even if he did, he could 
probably swim better than they could. Then they 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


190 

were neither of them sure that they could successfully 
stop a runaway horse, or a maniac bull, without a 
little more practice than they had had as yet. 

However, Fortune was kind, and took pity on 
them in a most unexpected manner. For one morn- 
ing, soon after breakfast, when Hazel was practising 
in the music-room, and Hilary and Cecily feeding 
their rabbits. Jack came up in a highly-excited state 
of mind to the verandah where his officer was seated 
doing nothing in particular. ‘‘General,” he said, 
with a very creditable salute, “do come down to the 
camp at once.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, bother ! ” said the veteran warrior, who had, 
by the way, shown rather a tendency to rest on his 
laurels of late. 

“No, but it isn’t humbug, really,” protested Jack ; 
“it’s something you’ll like awfully.” 

The General marched down in a very stately man- 
ner ; it would have been undignified to run, eager as 
he was to get down to the stockade, thinking it not 
unlikely that Lintoft, the carpenter, really had found 
time to make a cannon for them after all, or, at the 
very least, that there would be some change in the 
internal arrangements of the stronghold which it 
would be his duty as superior officer to criticise, if 
not condemn. 

Now it must be explained here that, during the 
last two or three days, the outside wall of the fort 
had been placarded with various bills, all glorying in 
the recent repulse of the enemy by a single-handed 
defender, and containing most insulting reflections 
on the courage of Red Indians as a race ; while, in 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


191 

case they might not have enough knowledge of 
English to understand these taunts, they were ac- 
companied by sketches which were certainly scathing 
enough to infuriate the least susceptible savage. 

To do Clarence justice, they were not due to any 
elation on his part, but had all been executed by the 
army in the wild hope that they might thus stir up 
the foe to a fresh demonstration, when they them- 
selves might recover their lost spurs. 

These placards, as Clarence found on reaching the 
stockade, had been scrawled over with a kind of red 
and yellow paint so as to be quite illegible. 

“ Ochre,’' said Guy ; ‘ ■ but that’s not the best of it, 
for we found this pinned with an arrow to one of the 
posts. ” And he produced a thin strip of white bark, 
on which were writing and drawings in crimson. 
“They must have done it with their own blood,” 
commented Jack, with great gusto; “but read it — 
do read it.” 

Clarence did not need a second invitation to read 
the document, which was as follows : 

“Wah Na Sa Pash Boo (Yellow Vulture), 

Chief of Black Bogallala Tribe ^ to the Great White Chief 
Tin Lin, Defiance. 

“The wigwam of Yellow Vulture wants but one 
ornament — the scalp of the white chief. Yellow 
Vulture has seen the taunts calling the red warriors 
^ women with the hearts of deer. ’ He will show the 
Paleface that the anger of the dusky ones is a big 
heap-lot terrible. When the sun has set behind the 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


192 

hills, and the stars light their watch-fires, then will 
Yellow Vulture and his braves be at hand. The scalp 
of the Paleface shall adorn the tepee af the Red Man. 

“Wah-WahI” 

In order that there should be no possible mistake 
about the intention, the message was supplemented 
by a rude representation of the process of scalping, 
evidently the work of a practised hand. 

“Didn’t I tell you we had something jolly to show 
you ! ” exclaimed Jack. 

But joy, or some equally powerful emotion, ren- 
dered the General incapable of speaking for several 
moments. 


ACT THE THIRD. 

WHERE IS THE GENERAL ? 

It was some little time before Clarence Tinling gave 
any opinion upon this bloodthirsty document. He 
turned exceedingly red, and examined it suspiciously 
on both sides. It seemed as if he did not altogether 
welcome this second opportunity for distinguishing 
himself. When he spoke it was with a sort of angry 
anxiety. 

“You think yourselves very clever, I dare say,’’ he 
said; “but you needn’t fancy you’ll take me in! 
Come, you had better say so at once — you did this 
yourselves ? It is not half bad— I will say that for it. ” 


PALEFACE AND FED8JCIN 


m 

“That we didn’t,” cried Guy. “ Why, just look at 
it, Tinling. Any one could see that it’s an Indian’s 
doing. No, it’s all right ; they really are coming.” 

“It’s all skittles, I tell you,” said Clarence, still 
more angrily, though he was paler again now. ‘ ‘ What 
should Indians come here for ? ” 

“ Well, he says why, there,” said Jack, “and they 
came the other evening.” 

Clarence’s colour rose again. “That’s different,” 
he said ; “I mean, it’s not the same tribe.” 

“No, these are Black Bogallalas,” said Jack. 
“What were the first ones, Tinling?” 

“ I didn’t ask them,” said the General shortly. 

“How many braves should you think Wah Na 
What’s-his-name will bring ? ” asked Guy. ‘ ‘ As many 
as came the other evening ? How many did come 
the first time ? ” 

“Do you think I had nothing better to do than 
count?” he retorted. “Is there anything else you 
would like to know ? ” 

“Well, we’ll hang out the lantern to-night, and 
watch how many come inside its rays,” said Jack, 
with a briskness which displeased his chief. 

“You wouldn’t be quite so jolly cheerful over it if 
you knew what it was like ! ” he grumbled. 

“Why not?” said Guy. “You beat the others 
easily enough by yourself, and we shall be three this 
time.” 

“ Oh, it’s all very fine to talk,” retorted the General ; 
“but we shall see what your mother and uncle say 
about it. They — they may think we ought not to take 
any notice of it.” 


13 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


194 

Jack's eyes opened wide at this. ''Not take any 
notice of an attack by Black Bogallalas ! I don't see 
how we can very well help noticing it ! " 

"It all depends on what Mrs. Jolliffe says,” replied 
the conscientious General. " I'm only a visitor here, 
and it wouldn’t be the right thing for me to lead you 
into danger without leave. ” 

"Well, you weren’t so particular the first time the 
Indians came ! ” remarked Guy. 

"Will you shut up about that first time? ” the Com- 
mander burst out, in exasperation; "it’s the second 
time now — that is, if it isn’t all humbug. That’s what 
I mean to find out first — you stay here till I come 
back, will you ? ” 

Taking the strip of bark with him, he went slowly 
up to the house. He had an uneasy feeling that the 
Indian’s challenge was genuine enough, but he still 
hoped to have it pronounced a forgery. This may 
seem strange indeed to some, considering the courage 
of which he had already given proof, but I do not 
wish to make any further mystery, particularly as most 
of my readers will probably have already guessed the 
secret of this apparent contrast. 

The fact is, then, that Clarence Tinling had the 
best of reasons for being cool and courageous on the 
previous occasion. Those Indians were entirely im- 
aginary ; he had written the warning himself, and 
instructed the coachman's boy to throw it over the 
stockade ; the attack on the fort and the brilliant vic- 
tory were an afterthought. 

What had he done it for ? That is rather difficult to 
explain — perhaps he hardly knew himself; he had a 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN, 


195 

vague idea of proving to those disrespectful girls that 
enemies did exist, and that the protection of an Army 
was not to be despised. 

Then when he found himself alone in the camp, the 
temptation to carry his invention further was too much 
for him ; and after Jack and Guy and Cecily, and 
even Uncle Lambert himself, accepted his story with- 
out hesitation, and treated him as a hero — why, it 
would have looked so silly to explain then, and so he 
went through with it. 

Lying is lying, whatever explanations and excuses 
may be made respecting it, and I am afraid it must 
be admitted that Tinling, if he began by a mere harm- 
less device for giving a new turn to the game, ended 
by telling some very unmistakable lies. 

Now he found himself in a most delicate position : 
what if an attack by Red Indians should really be 
quite possible? Mr. Lambert Jolliffe had certainly 
not seemed to see anything incredible in the former 
visit, and, though Clarence had not a very high opin- 
ion of his abilities, he was grown up, and was not likely 
to be misinformed on such a point as that — at all 
events, he was the best person to consult just then. 
As he expected, he found him under the big ilex on his 
back, with his after-breakfast pipe, no longer alight, 
between his lips. 

“ Mr. Jolliffe ; I say, Mr. Jolliffe,” began Clarence. 

Lambert Jolliffe sat up, and fixed his glass in one 
drowsy eye. ‘ ‘ Hullo, Sir Garnet — I beg your pardon. 
Lord Wolseley, I mean. You ought to hear what 
they’re saying at the War Office, I can tell you ! ” 

Praise is sweet, even when we do not deserve it, 


196 PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 

and Clarence felt a thrill of satisfaction at this some- 
what vague tribute. 

“ I wanted to ask you,” he said, “ should you 
say that Red Indians were — well, common in Eng- 
land?” 

“You have asked me a straightforward question, 
and I’ll give you a straightforward answer,” was the 
reply. ‘ ‘ Till quite lately I should say they were 
absolutely unknown in this country.” 

Clarence’s face brightened ; he felt quite fond of 
Uncle Lambert, and began to think him a particularly 
well-informed and entertaining person. 

“Yes,” continued Uncle Lambert, thoughtfully, “I 
must confess I thought it a little unlikely at first that 
you should have been annoyed by Red Indians ; but, 
of course, when I remembered the Earl’s Court Show, 
I saw at once that it was quite possible.” 

Clarence felt a cold qualm. He had, as we already 
know, seen Buffalo Bill’s wonderful show, which, in- 
deed, was responsible for much of his recent military 
enthusiasm. But till that moment, curiously enough, 
it had not occurred to him to connect the mysterious 
Wah Na Sa Pash Boo with the denizens of the Wild 
West whom he had seen careering about the im- 
mense arena at Earl’s Court. 

“ Do you mean,” he said, with an effort, “that you 
thought some of Buffalo Bill’s Indians had managed 
to escape P” 

“Well, I don’t know any other way to account for 
such a thing. Do you ? ” 

Clarence did not answer this question directly ; 
* ‘ But, ” he obj ected desperately, ' ‘ those were converted 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


m 

Indians. They went to church, and the Lyceum, 
and all that ! 

Uncle Lambert shrugged his shoulders : “ Once an 
Indian always an Indian!” he said. “ They must 
have their fling now and then, I suppose, and then 
the old Adam crops up. And you see,” he added, “ it 
cropped up in that attack on you the other night. 
Fortunately for us, and indeed for the whole country, 
you were prepared for them — otherwise no one can 
tell what horrors we might not have seen.” 

“ We may — we may see them yet 1 ” said the hero, 
gloomily. ^‘Just look at this, Mr. Jolliffe.” 

Lambert took the bark from him, and read it with 
a thoughtful frown. At last he said : 

“Well, I rather expected something of this sort 
when I saw you posting up all those insulting notices 
— Indians are so confoundedly touchy, you know.” 

“You might have said that at the time, then !” 
exclaimed the General reproachfully. 

Lambert lifted his eyebrows. 

“My dear chap, I thought you knew. Wasn’t 
that what you were all driving at ? ” 

“Not me,” said Clarence. “ I was against it from 
the first. I told them it was caddish to insult a 
fallen foe, but they would go and stick up those 
beastly notices.” 

“All’s well that ends well, eh ? You’ve got a rise 
out of ’em this time. I congratulate you, my boy, on 
getting the chance of a second brush with the Indians. 
And this time you’ll have the army with you. ” 

“A lot of good they are 1 ” said Clarence, in a 
muffled voice. 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN, 


198 

‘‘Come, it’s not good form for a General to run 
down his troops ; but you heroes are always so 
modest. I’ll be bound, now, you’ve determined not 
to mention this in the house till the danger is passed ? ” 

“No, I haven’t, though. I shall mention it, most 
likely. Why not.?” 

“To save them useless anxiety. Because, unless I 
am wrong, you see cause to apprehend (I must ask 
you not to conceal anything from me) — to apprehend 
that this will be a more serious affair than the last ? ” 

“Yes, I do,” replied the General, promptly, “a 
good deal.” 

“ I feared as much,” said Uncle Lambert, with a 
very grave face. ‘ ‘ But in that case, isn’t it as well 
not to terrify my sister and those poor girls unneces- 
sarily .? ” 

“I don’t see that. Mrs. Jolliffe might think we 
ought to be guarding the inside of the house.” 

“Oh,” said Uncle Lambert, “but I should object 
to that strongly. You see it’s very plain that it’s 
you the Yellow Vulture’s after. He won’t think of 
coming near the house unless you’re in it, and then 
what will become of us all ? ” 

“You’ll take care you don’t get mixed up in it, I 
can see,” said Tinling, savagely. 

‘ ‘ I shall take very good care indeed. Oh, but you 
must make allowances for me, my boy. Remember, 
I’ve not been in military training for days and days, 
as you have. ” 

‘ ‘ If that’s all, I could get you up in the drill in 
half an hour,” proposed Tinling, eagerly. 

“ Thanks, but I have a better reason still. Tastes 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


199 


differ so much. You like to spend your evenings in 
beating off wild Indians from a stockade. Now,: I 
prefer a plain, comfortable dinner, and a quiet cigar. 
I'm not sure that your way isn’t the manlier of the 
two-^but it's not nearly so much in my line.”. 

“Why don’t you say you're a funk, and have done 
with it?” Tinling said rudely 

“ My dear young friend,” was the placid answer, 

“ if Providence has endowed you with a meed of per- 
sonal courage beyond that of others, it is ungraceful 
to taunt those who are less fortunate. While I am 
by no means prepared to admit that I am what you 
so pleasingly term ‘ a funk, ’ I readily allow that ” 

But Tinling did not stay to hear any more ■ he 
turned on his heel with an anger that had a spice of 
envy in it. Why, why had not he been content with 
an ordinary reputation, instead of one that he must 
sustain now at all hazards ? He could deceive himself 
no longer ; his foolish vanity, which had allowed the 
army to post those rash defiances, had brought down 
some real Red Indians upon him, and he was horribly 
afraid. 

As he walked restlessly down the path, a veil 
seemed drawn across the brilliant sky, the dahlias 
and “red-hot pokers,” and gladioli in the beds burnt 
with a sinister glow, the smell of the sweet peas and 
mignonette seemed oppressive, the bees droning 
about the lavender patches had a note of warning in 
their buzz, he felt chilly in the shade and sick in the 
sun. 

He saw nothing for it but fighting, but the idea of 
facing a horde of howling savages with only two boys 


200 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


younger than himself was too appalling ; he must 
engage recruits, grown-up ones, and with this inten- 
tion he went to the stable-yard, where he found 
Chinnock, the coachman, sluicing the carriage- wheels. 

Chinnock,” he began, with an attempt to seem 
casual and careless, ‘ ‘ we’re going to be attacked by 
Red Indians again to-night.” 

Chinnock touched a sandy forelock, as he raised 
his red grinning face. 

‘^Lor’ sir, be you indeed? Well, you young 
genl’men du have rare goings on down in the pad- 
dock, that you du.” 

^^It’s — it’s real Red Indians this time, Chinnock — 
B — black Bogallalas I ” 

Chinnock had deliberately moved to the harness- 
room, and Tinling had to repeat his information. 

Ah, indeed, sir ! Red Injians ? Well, to think o’ 
that ! ” he said cheerfully, as if he was humouring 
some rather childish remark. 

But we shall want every available man ; do you 
think you can spare time to come and help ? ” 

‘"’Bout what time, sir? ” said Chinnock. 

“About nine — half-past eight, say. Do try.” 

“Can’t come as late as that, nohow, sir. That’s 
my supper-hour, that is. If the mistress don’t want 
the carriage to-day, I dessay I could step down ’bout 
five for half an hour or so, if that would suit.” 

“That wouldn’t be any use at all, Chinnock; we 
shan’t begin till dark.” 

“Then I’m afraid I can’t be of no sarvice to ’ee. 
sir. ” 

The poor General turned away: evidently the 


FALEFA CE AND REDSKIN 


201 


coachman had no intention of risking his life. He 
remembered Joe, the gardener’s boy and stable-help 
— he was better than no one. Joe was rolling the 
tennis-court, and grinned sheepishly on being pressed 
to join. 

“Noa, sur,” he said, “ it doan’t lay in my work for 
to fight no Injins. I see One onst at Reading Vair, 
I did, a nippin’ about he wur, and a roarin’ ,! I 
bain’t goin’ to hev naught to do with the likes o’ 
he ! ” 

Tinling saw only one hope left. If he could see 
Mrs. Jolliffe and tell her of the danger which threat- 
ened him, she might refuse permission to fight at all, 
or, at the very least, she would see that he had proper 
assistance. So into the house he went, and the first 
person he found was Hazel, who was knitting her 
pretty forehead over the Latin exercise which had 
been given her as a holiday task. 

say. Hazel,” he said, with a trembling voice ; 
but she interrupted him : 

“Oh, perhaps you can help me. What’s the Latin 
for ‘Balbus says it is all over with the General’?” 

He shivered ; it sounded so like an omen. “ No, 
but, Hazel, listen,” he said ; “the Indians are coming 
again to-night.” 

“If you’re not going to talk sensibly,” said Hazel, 
“ go out this instant. ” 

He saw she was utterly unsympathetic, and he 
wandered on to the. hall, which was used as a morn- 
ing-room, where Hilary sat painting a pansy, and he 
broke the news to her in much the same words. 
She actually laughed, and she had been almost as 


202 PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 

frightened as Cecily when he had told her of the other 
Indians. 

‘'You are too killing over those Red Indians ! ’’she 
said. Privately, he thought that the Red Indians 
would do all the killing. 

“You needn’t laugh; it’s true!” he said sol- 
emnly, 

“Oh, of course! ’’said Hilary; “but don’t come 
so near, or you’ll upset my glass of water. ” Hilary, 
too, was hopeless ; he was reduced to his last cards 
now, and came in upon Mrs. Jolliffe as she sat at her 
writing-table. She looked up with a sweet, vague 
smile. 

“ What is it now, dear boy ? ” she asked. “ I hope 
you are managing to amuse yourself.” 

“I think I ought to tell you,” he said thickly, “ that 
a tribe of Bogallala Indians are going to storm our 
encampment this evening. ” 

Perhaps Mrs. Jolliffe was getting a little bored with 
military topics. “Yes, yes, ” she said absently, “that 
will be very nice. I’m sure. Don’t be too late in com- 
ing in, there’s good boys.” 

“You don’t mind our being there ? — there will be 
danger ! ” he said with meaning. 

“ Mind? Not in the very least, so long as you are 
enjoying yourself,” she said kindly. 

There went one card : he had but one more. 
“ Could you let Corklett and George” (they were the 
butler and page respectively) ‘ ‘ come down to the 
camp about half-past eight ? We should be so much 
safer if we had them with us. ” 

“What are you thinking of, Clarence? We dine 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


203 

at eight, remember ; how can I send either of them 
down then ? You really must be reasonable.” 

Clarence was by no means an ill-mannered boy in 
general, but fear made him insolent at this. 

‘ ‘ Of course, if you think your dinner is more im- 
portant than us ! ” he burst out hotly. 

“Clarence, I can’t allow you to speak to me in 
that way. It is ridiculous for you to expect me to 
alter my arrangements to suit your convenience,” 
said Mrs. Jolliffe ; “ leave the room, or I shall be 
really angry with you. I don’t wish to hear any 
more — go. ” 

He went with a swelling heart, and in the garden 
he met Cecily. If he could only induce her to beg 
him not to risk his life again ! He disclosed the situ- 
ation as impressively as he could ; but, alas ! Cecily 
seemed perfectly tranquil. 

“I’m not a bit afraid this time,” she said, “ because 
you beat them so easily before ; there’s only one 
thing, Clarence. You know I daren’t lock the army 
in again — they’ve made it up ; but they were so cross 
over it ! So I want you to promise to look after 
them.” 

“I shall have enough to do to look after myself, I 
expect,” he answered roughly; “you don’t know 
what these Indians are.” 

“ Oh, but I do, Clarence ; I saw them at the ‘ Wild 
West. ’ I thought they looked rather nice then. And 
you know you frightened them so before. You are so 
awfully brave ■ — aren’t you ? ” 

“ I — I don’t think I feel quite so awfully brave as I 
did then,” he admitted. 


204 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


**Ah, but you will. Jack and Guy will be quite 
safe with you. Good-bye ; Tm going to get some 
mulberry-leaves for my silkworms.'' And she ran off 
cheerfully. 

It was his hard fate that everybody persisted in 
treating the affair in one of two ways — either they 
looked upon it as part of the army game, or else con- 
sidered him such a champion, on the strength of his 
past exploits, that there was practically no danger 
even if a whole tribe of Redskins came to attack him. 

Luncheon that day was a terrible meal for him. 
Uncle Lambert (though he was too great a coward to 
go near the fight himself) seemed very anxious that 
the defenders should be in good condition. ^ ‘ Give 
yourself a chance. General,” he would say ; ‘‘ another 
slice of this roly-poly pudding may just turn the scale 
between you and Yellow Vulture. Look at the army 
— they’re victualling for a regular seige ! ” 

But Clarence was quite unable to follow their 
example ; he was annoyed with them for what he 
considered was “showing off” — though he might 
have reflected that to consume three helpings of jam- 
and-suet in rapid succession was an almost impos- 
sible form of bravado. 

The rest of the afternoon he spent in trying to lower 
the army's confidence by telling all the gruesome 
stories of Indian warfare he could think of ; but he 
frightened himself a great deal more than them, and 
at last had to abandon the attempt in despair. 

For Jack and Guy had no nerves to speak of ; they 
were eager to clear their tarnished reputation, and the 
possibility of harm coming to them did not seem to 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


205 

present itself. They had formed rather a poor opin- 
ion of Buffalo BilFs Indians, whose yell turned out 
to be very little more than short yelps, and who ran 
away directly a Cowboy showed his nose. Hadn't 
Clarence defeated them with ease already ? What 
Clarence had done alone they surely could do together, 
and then they had an unbounded belief in the impreg- 
nable character of their stockade. 

Tinling found that he could not undeceive them 
without exposing himself, which he would still rather 
die than do, and he roamed about the grounds mak- 
ing a little mental calculation whenever a clock struck 
in the heavy afternoon stillness : “ In so many hours 

from this I shall be fighting hand-to-hand with real 
Indians I ” 

Then at tea-time he thought (for the first time) the 
smell of cake quite detestable, and he hardly knew 
how he forced himself to sit quietly on his chair. 

'' General Tinling,” said Uncle Lambert, “before 
you, so to speak, ‘ go to the front ' and occupy the 
post of danger, will you oblige me by drawing up the 
troops before the verandah ? I should like, though 
unable to accompany you myself, to say a few words 
of farewell. ” 

Clarence sulkily acquiesced, and Lambert Jolliffe 
addressed the army ; “ Soldiers,” he said, a “ great 
responsibility rests upon you this day. You are ex- 
pected solemnly and' earnestly to strive your utmost 
not to 

Let the red man dance 
By our red cedar tree, 

to quote (with a trifling variation) from Tennyson’s 


2o6 paleface and redskin 

‘Maud.’ For myself, I have no fears of the result. 
Under the leadership of your veteran General, vic- 
tory must infallibly crown your arms. We peaceful 
civilians shall rest secure in the absolute confidence 
such protection inspires, and be the first to welcome 
your triumphant return. Should your hearts fail you 
at any moment, I have already instructed you how to 
act. To the Commander himself I should consider 
the mere suggestion an impertinence. Go, then, 
devoted spirits, where Glory leads, and endeavour to 
avoid the indignity of scalping — if only for the sake 
of appearances. Soldiers, I have done. May the 
God of Battles (I need hardly explain to scholars that 
I refer to Mars) keep his eye on you ! ” 

Hazel and Hilary were also on the verandah, and 
used their handkerchiefs freely — but principally to 
conceal their mouths. ‘ ‘ They’ll be sorry they laughed 
by-and-by,” thought Clarence; “they’ll wish they 
had cried just a little, perhaps ! ” — a reflection the 
pathos of which very nearly made him cry himself, as 
he marched down to the stockade, feeling distinctly 
unwell. 

Before he entered the fort he tore down the fatal 
notices. “ What’s the good of that ?” asked Guy. 

“Well, the Indians have seen ’em,” said the 
General. 

“ But they’ll think we want to back out of it,” ob- 
jected Jack. 

“ Let them think ! ” was the bold retort. 

Inside the fort Jack and Guy set to work in the 
highest spirits to barricade the entrance with wheel- 
barrows and an old mowing-machine ; then they lit 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


the lantern, and polished their guns, sharpened their 
swords, and looked to the springs of their pistols for 
about the hundredth time. 

“ I say this would jolly well pepper a Red Indian, 
wouldn’t it ! ” cried Guy, showing a pistol, the tiny 
barrel of which was constructed to discharge swan- 
shot with a steel watch-spring. 

“I tell you what,” said Jack, with the air of a 
trapper, “ I shall reserve my peas till I’ve fired away 
all the corks, and take a deliberate aim each time.” 

It was impossible to persuade them that these 
missiles would not be accepted as deadly by savages, 
who of course would know no better ; and again, 
had not the first victory been won by these simple 
means ? 

So General Tinling held his peace, and the western 
sky slowly changed from crocus to green, and from 
green to deep violet, and the evening star lighted its 
steady golden fire, the grasshoppers set up a louder 
chirp, a bat executed complicated figures overhead, 
and the boys unconsciously began to speak in 
whispers. 

^‘It’s getting too dark to see much with this tele- 
scope, ” said Jack, ‘ ‘ I wish we had a night-glass. The 
Indians ought to be here by this time — they said 
‘sunset,’ didn’t they.? If I was a Red Indian I 
would be punctual ! When do you suppose they’ll 
come, Clarence — soon ? ” 

“ How on earth do I know ? ” snapped the General 
from within the tent. 

“Well, you needn’t get in a bait over it. How 
did they come on the first time — did they crawl along 


ao8 PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 

like snakes till they were quite near, and then give a 
yell and rush at the stockade ? ” 

“I forget what they did — don't bother me ! " 

“ I suppose they’ll all have tomahawks,” said Guy. 
“Clarence, does scalping hurt?” 

There was a slight convulsion inside the tent, but 
no answer. 

“I wonder, if the Bogallalas torture prisoners,” Jack 
observed ; “I don’t think I could ^stand that . ” 

The General came to the tent-door at this : “ Can’t 
you fellpws shut up?” he said fiercely. “They’ll 
hear you ! ” 

‘ ‘ The’re not here yet — we shall know when 
they come, by the signalling — let’s all keep quite 
quiet for a minute or two.” 

There was a breathless interval of silence. At last 
Jack said : “I hear something — a sort of low grunt- 
ing noise, like pigs.” 

“Perhaps it is the pigs at the farm,” suggested 
Guy. 

“Indians can imitate all kinds of birds, I know,” 
reasoned Jack, not directly to the point, perhaps, but 
he was getting excited. 

Tinling felt a dull rage against the other two. 
How dared they pretend not to be afraid ? It was all 
swagger — he knew that very well. Various unpleasant 
recollections began to rise in his mind. He remem- 
bered how that Indian spy had stalked the settler’s 
cabin at Earl’s Court. He could see him now, steal- 
ing over the sand, then listening with his ear to the 
ground, and turning to beckon on the ambushed 
warriors. He even remembered the way the yellow 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


209 

and red striped blinds of the log hut had flapped in the 
wind and how the horse that was hobbled outside 
raised his head from his hay, and pricked his ears un- 
easily, as the foe came gliding nearer and nearer. Then 
their way of fighting — he had thought it rather comic 
then — they hopped and pranced about like so many 
lively frogs, but the butchery would not be rendered 
any more agreeable by being accompanied by laugh- 
able gestures ! And there was an almost naked light- 
yellow savage, whom he recalled dancing the war 
dance — he tried not to think of all this, but it came 
vividly before him. 

“ S-s-h — Cave I ” cried Guy suddenly, as he looked 
through the loophole ; “I can see just the top of one’s 
head and feathers among the currant bushes. I’ll 
touch him up in a second.” 

He raised his tiny spring pistol, and was just aim- 
ing, when Tinling, almost beside himself, darted on 
him, and struck it out of his hand. ‘ ‘ What are you 
doing now?” he said through his teeth. “What is 
the good of irritating them ? ” 

“Why, they are irritated,” said Guy, “or they 
wouldn’t come.” 

“ If they are,” retorted Clarence, raising his voice, 
“ whose doing was it ? You can’t say I had anything 
to do with putting up those defiances? Haven’t I 
always said I respected Red men ? They’ve got feel- 
ings like us. When you go and insult them, of 
course they get annoyed — who wouldn’t, I should 
like to know? I honour a chief like Yellow Vulture 
myself, and I don’t care if he hears me say so. I say 
I honour him ! ” 


14 


210 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


His voice rose almost to a scream as he concluded. 

‘‘I say, Tinling, I do believe you’re in a funk!” 
said Guy, after a moment of wondering silence. 

If you are, say so, and we shall know what 
to do,” added Jack, feeling in his pocket. “Are 
you ? ” 

“ Feel his hands,” suggested Guy. 

“Look here,” said Clarence, dashing aside the 
obstacles before the door, “Fmnot going to stay 
here to be treated in this way. If it hadn’t been for 
your foolery in sticking up the notices we should 
have been friends with the Indians now. I don’t 
wan’t to quarrel with any Bogallala. And you have 
the cheek to ask me if I’m in a funk, and to want 
to feel my hands. Well, it just serves you right — I’m 
going.” 

“Well, go then ; who wants you said Guy. 

But softer-hearted Jack said, “Clarence, you 
mustn’t. You’ll be safe in here ; but out there ” 

But the General had already vanished. He was 
crouching outside in the shadow of the stockade. He 
could not bear being penned up any longer ; he must 
at least have a run for his life. 

Had the enemy heard him declare his innocence 
If so, it did not seem to have softened them. They 
were still crouching — silent, hidden, relentless — 
behind the currant bushes, their scouts signalling to 
one another, for no real grasshopper ever made so 
much noise as that. He must make a bolt for it, and 
take his chance of their arrows missing him. Over 
the open space of grey-green grass he scuttled, and 
actually succeeded in reaching the friendly shadow 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


211 


of the holly hedge unharmed ; but that was probably 
because they felt so certain of cutting him off at their 
pleasure. 

On tiptoe and trembling went the General along 
the narrow paths, green with damp, and latticed by 
the shadows which branches cast in the sickly moon- 
light, until — just when he was almost clear of the 
gloom — his knees bent under him ; for there, at the 
end of the walk, against the starry sky, stood a tow- 
ering figure, with bristling feather headdress, and 
tomahawk poised. 

“Oh, please, sir, don’t !” he faltered, and shut his 
eyes, expecting the Indian to bound upon him. But 
when he opened his eyes again, the savage was gone ! 
He must have slipped behind a ragged old yew which 
had once been clipped and trimmed to look like a 
chess-king. 

Clarence Tinling tottered on through the shrub- 
bery, which was full of terrors. Warriors, stealthy 
and cruel, lurked behind every rustling laurel ; far 
away on the lawn he saw their spears through the 
tall pampas grass ; he heard them chirping, clucking, 
and grunting in every direction as they lay in wait 
for him, until at last he gained the broad gravel path, 
at the end of which — oh, how far away they seemed ! 
— were the three lighted windows of the drawing- 
room. He could see the interior quite plainly, and 
the group round the piano where the shaded lamp 
made a spot of brilliant colour. What were they all 
doing ? Were they huddled together, waiting, watch- 
ing, in an agony of suspense ? Nothing of the kind : 
it will be scarcely credited, perhaps, but this heartless 


212 PALEFACE AN’D REDSKIN, 

domestic circle were positively passing the time with 
music, as if nothing were happening ! 

If only he could reach that bright drawing-room 
before the rush came ! He felt that there were lithe 
forms stealing along behind the flower-beds. He 
dared not run, but dragged his heavy feet -along the 
gravel ; and then, all at once, from the rhododendron 
bushes rose a wild, unearthly yell. He could bear it 
no longer ; he would make one last effort, even if they 
tomahawked him on the very verandah. 

Somehow— he never knew how — he found himself 
in the midst of that quiet musical party, wild with 
terror, scarcely able to speak. 

“ The Red Indians ! ” he gasped. Don't let them 
get me ! Save me — hide me somewhere ! " and he 
remembered afterwards that he made a mad endea- 
vour to get inside the piano. 

He was instantly surrounded by the astonished 
family. ‘‘My dear Clarence," said Mrs. Jolliffe, 
“ you’re perfectly safe — you’ve been frightening your- 
self with your own game. There are no Indians 
here.’’ 

Another howl from the shrubbery seemed to con- 
tradict her. “ There, didn’t you hear that? ’’ he cried. 
“Oh, you won’t believe me till it’s too late ! There 
are hundreds of them round the stockade. They may 
have scalped Jack and Guy by this time ! " 

“ And why ain’t you being scalped too ?’’ inquired 
Uncle Lambert. 

“ I’m sure you needn’t talk ! ’’ he retorted ; “ you 
weren’t any more anxious to fight than I am. " 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


213 

**But isn’t that different? I thought you had 
fought them before, and conquered ? ” 

' ‘ Then you thought wrong ! Those — those weren’t 
real Indians — I made them up, then ! ” 

“Now we’ve got it!” said Uncle Lambert. 
“Well, Master Clarence, you’ve made your little con- 
fession, and now it’s my turn — I made Yellow Vul- 
ture up 1 ” 

“Are you sure — really sure — on your honour?” 
he asked eagerly. 

“Honest Injun I ” said Lambert. “You see, I be- 
gan to think the military business was getting rather 
overdone ; the army, like Wordsworth’s world, was 
Hoo much with us,’ and it occurred to me to see 
whether the General’s courage would stand an out- 
side test — so I composed that little challenge. Yes, 
you see before you the only Wah Na Sa Pash Boo — 
no others are genuine ! ” 

Tinling felt that those girls were laughing at him ; 
they had probably been in the secret for some time ; 
but he could not care much just then — the relief was 
so delicious 1 

“ It was too bad of you, Lambert," said Mrs. Jol- 
liffe. ‘ ‘ He was really horribly frightened, and there 
are those other two down in the stockade all alone — 
you might have thought of that — they will be half 
out of their minds by this time 1 ” 

“My dear Cecilia,” was the reply, “don’t be un- 
easy, I did think of it. The moment they begin to 
feel at all uncomfortable they have directions to open 
a certain packet which explains the whole thing. If 
the gallant General had not been in quite such a 


214 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN. 


hurry, he would have spared himself this unpleasant 
experience. ” 

“Let’s all go down, and see how they’re getting 
on,” said Hazel. 

“I know this,” said the General sullenly, “they 
were in quite as big a funk as I was ! ” 

‘ ‘ Then why didn’t they run in, and ask to be hid- 
den too ? ” inquired Hilary. 

“Why } Because they didn’t dare ! ” retorted Tin- 
ling boldly. 

“You know,” he remarked to Cecily, as they were 
going down together through the warm darkness, 
“it’s not fair of your uncle to play these tricks on 
fellows. ” 

“Perhaps it isn’t quite,” said Cecily impartially; 
“but then he didn’t begin, did he ? ” 

“Ahoy ! ” shouted Uncle Lambert, as they neared 
the stockade, and he was answered by a ringing cheer 
from the fortress. 

“Come on — we ain’t afraid of you ! Don’t skulk 
there — see what you’ll get ! ” And a volley of peas, 
corks, and small shot flew about their ears. 

Lambert Jolliffe ran forward: “Hi, stop that! 
spare our lives!” he cried, laughing. “Jack, you 
young rascal, put down that confounded popgun — 
can’t you see we’re not Red Indians ? ” 

“What, is it you, uncle?” said Guy, in a rather 
crestfallen tone. “Where are the Red Indians 
then ? ” 

“They had to go up to town to see their dentist. 
But do you mean to say you haven’t opened my en- 
velope after all ? ” 


PALEFACE AND REDSKIN 


215 

“ I thought you told us it was only in case we got 
frightened ? ” said Jack. 

^‘What does the General say io that cried 
Lambert — ^but Clarence Tinling was nowhere to be 
found. He had slipped off to his bedroom, and the 
next morning he announced at breakfast that he 
“ thought his people would be wanting him at home. ’’ 

So the army was disbanded, for there was a general 
disarmament, and on the afternoon after Tinling’s 
departure the entire Jolliffe family engaged in a grand 
cricket match, when lazy Uncle Lambert came out 
unexpectedly strong as an overhand bowler. 


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SHUT OUT. 


It is towards the end of an afternoon in December, 
and Wilfred Rolleston is walking along a crowded 
London street with his face turned westward. A few 
moments ago and he was scarcely conscious of where 
he was or where he meant to go : he was walking on 
mechanically in a heavy stupor, through which there 
stole a haunting sense of degradation and despair that 
tortured him dully. And suddenly, as if by magic, 
this has vanished : he seems to himself to have waked 
from a miserable day dream to the buoyant conscious- 
ness of youth and hope. Temperaments which are 
subject to fits of heavy and causeless depression have 
their compensations sometimes in the reaction which 
follows ; the infesting cares, as in Longfellow’s poem, 
“fold their tents, like the Arabs, and as silently steal 
away,” and with their retreat comes an exquisite 
exhilaration which more equable dispositions can never 
experience. 

Is this so with Rolleston now ? He only knows 
that the cloud has lifted from his brain, and that in 
the clear sunshine which bursts upon him now he can 
look his sorrows in the face and know that there is 
nothing so terrible in them after all. 


2i8 


SHUT OUT. 


It is true that he is not happy at the big City day 
school which he has just left. How should he be? 
He is dull and crabbed and uncouth, and knows too 
well that he is an object of general dislike ; no one 
there cares to associate with him, and he makes no 
attempt to overcome their prejudices, being perfectly 
aware that they are different from him, and hating 
them for it, but hating himself, perhaps, the most. 

And though all his evenings are spent at home 
there is little rest for him even there for the work for 
the next day must be prepared ; and he sits over it 
till late, sometimes with desperate efforts to master 
the difficulties, but more often staring at the page 
before him with eyes that are almost wilfully vacant. 

All this has been and is enough in itself to account 
for the gloomy state into which he had sunk. But — 
and how he could he have forgotten it } — it is over 
for the present. 

To-night he will not have to sit up struggling with 
the tasks which will only cover him with fresh dis- 
grace on the morrow ; for a whole month he need 
not think of them, nor of the classes in which the 
hand of every one is against him. For the holidays 
have begun ; to-day has been the last of the term. 
Is there no reason for joy and thankfulness in that? 
What a fool he has been to let those black thoughts 
gain such a hold over him ! 

Slowly, more as if it had all happened a long time 
ago instead of quite recently, the incidents of the 
morning come back to him, vivid and clear once more 
— morning chapel and the Doctor’s sermon, and after- 
wards the pretence of work and relaxed discipline in 


SHUT OUT 


219 

the class-rooms, when the results of the examinations 
had been read out, with the names of the boys who 
had gained prizes and their remove to the form above. 
He had come out last of course, but no one expected 
anything else from him ; a laugh had gone round the 
desks when his humble total closed the list, and he 
had joined in it to show them he didn’t care. And 
then the class had been dismissed, and there had been 
friendly good-byes, arrangements for walking home 
in company or for meeting during the holidays — for 
all but him : he had gone out alone — and the dull 
blankness had come over him from which he has only 
just recovered. 

But, for the present, at all events, he has got rid of 
it completely ; he is going home, where at least he 
is not despised, where he will find a sanctuary from 
gibes and jostlings and impositions ; and the longer 
he thinks of this the higher his spirits rise, and he 
steps briskly, with a kind of exultation, until the 
people he passes in the streets turn and look at him, 
struck by his expression. They can see how jolly 
I’m feeling,” he thinks with a smile. 

The dusk is falling, and the shops he passes are 
brilliant with lights and decorations, but he does not 
stop to look at any of them ; his mind is busy with 
settling how he shall employ himself on this the first 
evening of his liberty, the first for so long on which 
he could feel his own master. 

At first he decides to read. Is there not some book 
he had begun and meant to finish, so many days ago 
now that he has even forgotten what it was all about, 
and only remembers that it was exciting ? 


220 


SHUT OUT. 


And yet, he thinks, he won't read to-night — not on 
the very first night of the holidays. Quite lately — 
yesterday or the day before — his mother had spoken 
to him, gently but very seriously, about what she 
called the morose and savage fits which would bring 
misery upon him if he did not set himself earnestly 
to overcome them. 

And there were times, he knew, when it seemed as 
if a demon possessed him and drove him to wound 
even those who loved him and whom he loved — 
times when their affection only roused in him some 
hideous spirit of sullen contradiction. 

He feels softened now somehow, and has a new 
longing for the love he has so often harshly repulsed. 
He will overcome this sulkiness of his ; he will begin 
this very evening ; as soon as he gets home he will 
tell his mother that he is sorry, that he does love her 
really, only that when these fits come on him he 
hardly knows what he says or does. 

And she will forgive him, only too gladly ; and his 
mind will be quite at ease again. No, not quite ; 
there is still something he must do before that : he 
has a vague recollection of a long-standing coolness 
between himself and his younger brother, Lionel. 
They never have got on very well together ; Lionel is 
so different^much cleverer even already, for one 
thing ; better looking too, and better tempered. 
Whatever they quarrelled about Wilfred is very sure 
that he was the offender ; Lionel never begins that 
kind of thing. But he will put himself in the right at 
once, and ask Lionel to make friends again ; he will 
consent readily enough — he always does. 


SHUT OUT. 


221 


And then he has a bright idea : he will take his 
brother some little present to prove that he really 
wishes to behave decently for the future. What shall 
he buy ? 

He finds himself near a large toy shop at the time, 
and in the window are displayed several regiments 
of brightly coloured tin warriors — the very thing 1 
Lionel is still young enough to delight in them. 

Feeling in his pockets, Rolleston discovers more 
loose silver than he had thought he possessed, and so 
he goes into the shop and asks for one of the boxes of 
soldiers. He is served by one of two neatly dressed 
female assistants, who stare and giggle at one another 
at his first words, finding it odd, perhaps, that a fel- 
low of his age should buy toys — as if, he thinks in- 
dignantly, they couldn’t see that it was not for himself 
he wanted the things. 

But he goes on, feeling happier after his purchase. 
They will see now that he is not so bad after all. It 
is long since he has felt such a craving to be thought 
well of by somebody. 

A little farther on he comes to a row of people, 
mostly women and tradesmen’s boys, standing on the 
curb stone opposite a man who is seated in a little 
wooden box on wheels drawn up close to the pave- 
ment. He is paralytic and blind, with a pinched 
white face framed in an old-fashioned fur cap with 
big ear lappets ; he seems to be preaching or reading, 
and Rolleston stops idly enough to listen for a few 
moments, the women making room for him with 
alacrity, and the boys staring curiously round at the 
new arrival with a grin. 


222 


SHUT OUT. 


He hardly pays much attention to this ; he is lis- 
tening to the poem which the man in the box is recit- 
ing with a nasal and metallic snuffle in his voice ; 

There’s a harp and a crown, 

For you and for me, 

Hanging on the boughs 
Of that Christmas tree ! 

He hears, and then hurries on again, repeating the 
stanza mechanically to himself, without seeing any- 
thing particularly ludicrous about it. The words 
have reminded him of that Christmas party at the 
Gordons’, next door. Did not Ethel Gordon ask him 
particularly to come, and did he not refuse her sul- 
lenly ? What a brute he was to treat her like that ! 
If she were to ask him again, he thinks he would not 
say no, though he does hate parties. 

Ethel is a dear girl, and never seems to think him 
good-for-nothing, as most people do. Perhaps it is 
sham though — no, he can’t think that when he 
remembers how patiently and kindly she has borne 
with his senseless fits of temper and tried to laugh 
away his gloom. 

Not every girl as pretty as Ethel is would care to 
notice him, and persist in it in spite of everything ; 
yet he has sulked with her of late. Was it because 
she had favoured Lionel ? He is ashamed to think 
that this may have been the reason. 

Never mind, that is all over now ; he will start 
clear with everybody. He will ask Ethel, too, to 
forgive him. Is there nothing he can do to please 
her ? Yes ; some time ago she had asked him to 


SHUT OUT 


223 


draw something for her. (He detests drawing les- 
sons, but he has rather a taste for drawing things out 
of his own head.) He had told her, not too civilly, 
that he had work enough without doing drawings for 
girls. He will paint her something to-night as a sur- 
prise ; he will begin as soon as tea is cleared away ; 
it will be more sociable than reading a book. 

And then already he sees a vision of the warm little 
panelled room, and himself getting out his colour- 
box and sitting down to paint by lamp-light — for any 
light does for his kind of colouring— while his mother 
sits opposite and Lionel watches the picture growing 
under his hand. 

What shall he draw .? He gets quite absorbed in 
thinking over this ; his own tastes run in a gory direc- 
tion, but perhaps Ethel, being a girl, may not care 
for battles or desperate duels. A compromise strikes 
him ; he will draw a pirate ship : that will be first 
rate, with the black flag flying on the mainmast, and 
the pirate captain on the poop scouring the ocean 
with a big glass in search of merchantmen ; all about 
the deck and rigging he can put the crew, with red 
caps, and belts stuck full of pistols and daggers. 

And on the right there shall be a bit of the pirate 
island, with a mast and another black flag — he knows 
he will enjoy picking out the skull and cross-bones 
in thick Chinese white — and then, if there is room, he 
will add a cannon, and perhaps a palm tree. A pirate 
island always has palm trees. 

He is so full of this projected picture of his that he 
is quite surprised to find that he is very near the square 
where he lives ; but here, just in front of him, at the 


224 


SHUT OUT 


end of the narrow lane, is the public-house with the 
coach and four engraved on the ground glass of the 
lower part of the window, and above it the bottles 
full of coloured water. 

And here is the greengrocer’s. How long is it since 
it was a barber’s ? — surely a very little time. And 
there is the bootmaker’s, with its outside display of 
dangling shoes, and the row of naked gas jets blown 
to pale blue specks and whistling red tongues by turns 
as a gust sweeps across them. 

This is his home, this little dingy, old-fashioned red- 
brick house at an angle of the square, with a small 
paved space railed in before it. He pushes open the 
old gate with the iron arch above, where an oil-lamp 
used to hang, and hurries up to the door with the 
heavy shell-shaped porch, impatient to get to the 
warmth and light which await him within. 

The bell has got out of order, for only a faint jangle 
comes from below as he rings ; he waits a little and 
then pulls the handle again, more sharply this time, 
and still no one comes. 

When Betty does think proper to come up and open 
the door he will tell her that it is too bad keeping a 
fellow standing out here, in the fog and cold, all this 
time. . . . She is coming at last — no, it was fancy ; 
it seems as if Betty had slipped out for something, and 
perhaps the cook is upstairs, and his mother may be 
dozing by the fire, as she has begun to do of late. 

Losing all patience, he gropes for the knocker, and, 
groping in vain, begins to hammer with bare fists on 
the door, louder and louder, until he is interrupted 
by a rough voice from the railings behind him. 


SHUT OUT. 


225 

** Now then, what are you up to there, eh?” says 
the voice, which belongs to a burly policeman who 
has stopped suspiciously on the pavement. 

“Why,” says Rolleston, “ I want to get in, and I 
can’t make them hear me. I wish you’d try what you 
can do, will you ? ” 

The policeman comes slowly in to the gate. “ I 
dessay,” he says jocularly. “ Is there any think else ? 
Come, suppose you move on.” 

A curious kind of dread of he knows not what 
begins to creep over Wilfred at this. 

“ Move on?” he cries, “ why should I move on ? 
This is my house ; don’t you see ? I live here. ” 

“ Now look ’ere, my joker, I don’t want a job over 
this,” says the constable stolidly. “You’ll bring a 
crowd round in another minute if you keep on that 
’ammering.” 

“ Mind your own business,” says the other with 
growing excitement. 

“ That’s what you’ll make me do if you don’t look 
out,” is the retort. “Will you move on before I make 
you ? ” 

“ But, I say,” protests Rolleston, “ I’m not joking ; 
I give you my word I’m not. I do live here. Why, 
I’ve just come back from school, and I can’t get in.” 

“ Pretty school_yo« come from ! ” growls the police- 
man ; “ ’andles on io your lesson books, if I knows 
anything. ’Ere, out you go ! ” 

Rolleston’s fear increases. “ I won’t ! I won’t ! ” 
he cries frantically, and rushing back to the door beats 
upon it wildly. On the other side of it are love and 
shelter, and it will not open to him. He is cold and 

15 


226 


SHUT OUT 


hungry and tired after his walk ; why do they keep 
him out like this ? 

“Mother!" he calls hoarsely. “Can’t you hear 
me, mother .? It’s Wilfred ; let me in ! " 

The other takes him, not roughly, by the shoulder. 
“ Now you take my advice," he says. “You ain’t 
quite yourself ; you’re making a mistake. I don’t 
want to get you in trouble if you don’t force me to it. 
Drop this ’ere tomfool game and go home quiet to 
wherever it is you do live." 

“ I tell you I live here, you fool 1 ’’ shrieks Wilfred, 
in deadly terror lest he should be forced away before 
the door is opened. 

“ And I tell you you don’t do nothing of the sort," 
says the policeman, beginning to lose his temper. 
“No one don’t live ’ere, nor ain’t done not since I’ve bin 
on the beat. Use your eyes if you’re not too far gone." 

For the first time Rolleston seems to see things 
plainly as they are ; he glances round the square — 
that is just as it always is on foggy winter evenings, 
with its central enclosure a shadowy black patch 
against a reddish glimmer, beyond which the lighted 
windows of the houses make yellow bars of varying 
length and tint. 

But this house, his own — why, it is all shuttered 
and dark ; some of the window panes are broken ; 
there is a pale grey patch in one that looks like a 
dingy bill ; the knocker has been unscrewed from the 
door, and on its scraped panels some one has scribbled 
words and rough caricatures that were surely not 
there when he left that morning. 

Can anything — any frightful disaster — have come 


SHUT OUT. 


227 

in that short time ? No, he will not think of it ; he 
will not let himself be terrified, all for Nothing. 

Now, are you goin’ ? ” says the policeman after a 
pause. 

Rolleston puts his back against the door and clings 
to the sides. ‘ ‘ No ! ” he shouts. ‘ ‘ I don’t care what 
you say ; I don’t believe you ; they are all in there — 
they are, I tell you, they are — they are ! ” 

In a second he is in the constable’s strong grasp 
and being dragged, struggling violently, to the gate, 
when a soft voice, a woman’s, intercedes for him. 

“What is the matter? Oh, don’t — don’t be so 
rough with him, poor creature ! ” it cries pitifully. 

“I’m only exercisin’ my duty, mum,” says the 
officer ; “he wants to create a disturbance ’ere.” 

“No,” cries Wilfred, “he lies! I only want to 
get into my own house, and no one seems to hear 
me. You don’t think anything is the matter, do 
you ? ” 

It is a lady who has been pleading for him ; as he 
wrests himself from his captor and comes forward she 
sees his face, and her own grows white and startled. 

“Wilfred I ” she exclaims. 

“Why, you know my name 1 ” he says. “Then 
you can tell him it’s all right. Do I know you? 
You speak like — is it — Ethel ? ” 

“Yes,” she says, and her voice is low and trem- 
bling, “ I am Ethel.” 

He is silent for an instant ; then he says slowly, 
“ You are not the same — nothing is the same ; it is 
all changed — changed — and oh, my God, what am 

ir 


SHUT OUT. 


21 % 

Slowly the truth is borne iruupon his brain, 
muddled and disordered by long excess, and the last 
shred of the illusion which had possessed him drifts 
aVay. 

He knows now that his boyhood, with such possi- 
bilities of happiness as it had ever held, has gone for 
ever. He has been knocking at a door which will 
open for him never again, and the mother by whose 
side his evening was to have been passed died long 
long years ago. 

The past, blotted out completely for an hour by 
some freak of the memory, comes back to him, and 
he sees his sullen, morbid boyhood changing into 
something worse still, until by slow degrees he be- 
came what he is now— dissipated, degraded, lost. 

At first the shock, the awful loneliness he awakes 
to, and the shame of being found thus by the woman 
for whom he had felt the only pure love he had 
known, overwhelm him utterly, and he leans his 
head upon his arms as he clutches the railings, and 
sobs with a grief that is terrible in its utter abandon- 
ment. 

The very policeman is silent and awed by what he 
feels to be a*scene from the human tragedy, though 
he may not be able to describe it to himself by any 
more suitable phrase than “ a rum start.” 

You can go now, policeman,” says the lady, put- 
ting money in his hand. “You see I know this — 
this gentleman. Leave him to me ; he will give you 
no trouble now.” 

And the constable goes, taking care, however, to 
keep an eye occasionally on the comer where this 


SHUT OUT 


229 

has taken place. He has not gone long before Rolles- 
ton raises his head with a husky laugh ; his manner has 
changed now ; he is no longer the boy in thought and 
expression that he was a short time before, and speaks 
as might be expected from his appearance. 

“I remember it all now,’' he says. “You are 
Ethel Gordon, of course you are, and you wouldn’t 
have anything to do with me — and quite right too — 
and then you married my brother Lionel. You see 
I’m as clear as a bell again now. So you came up 
and found me battering at the old door, eh ? Do you 
know, I got the fancy I was a boy again and coming 
home to— bah, what does all that matter ? Odd sort 
of fancy though, wasn’t it ? Drink is always play- 
ing me some cursed trick now. A pretty fool I must 
have made of myself ! ” 

She says nothing, and he thrusts his hands deep in 
his ragged pockets. “Hallo ! what’s this I’ve got ?’^ 
he says, as he feels something at the bottom of one of 
them ; and, bringing out the box of soldiers he had 
bought half an hour before, he holds it up with a 
harsh laugh which has the ring of despair in it. 

“Do you see this?” he says to her. “You’ll 
laugh when I tell you it’s a toy I bought just now 
for — guess whom — for your dear husband ! Must 
have been pretty bad, mustn’t I ? Shall I give it to 
you to take to him — no? Well, perhaps he has out- 
grown such things now, so here goes ! ” and he 
pitches the box over the railings, and it falls with a 
shiver of broken glass as the pieces of painted tin 
rattle out upon the flag-stones. 

“And now I’ll wish you good-evening,” he says, 


SHUT OUT 


230 

sweeping off his battered hat with mock courtesy. 

She tries to keep him back. “No, Wilfred, no; 
you must not go like that. We live here still, Lionel 
and I, in the same old house,” and she indicates the 
house next door; “he will be home very soon. 
Will you ” (she cannot help a little shudder at the 
thought of such a guest) — “will you come in and 
wait for him ? ” 

“Throw myself into his arms, eh?” he says. 
“ How delighted he would be ! Tm just the sort of 
brother to be a credit to a highly respectable young 
barrister like him. You really think he’d like it? 
No ; it’s all right, Ethel ; don’t be alarmed ; I was only 
joking. I shall never come in your way, I promise 
you. I’m just going to take myself off.” 

“Don’t say that,” she says (in spite of herself she 
feels relieved ) ; “ tell me — is there nothing we can 
do— no help we can give you ? ” 

“Nothing,” he answers fiercely; “I don’t want 
your pity. Do you think I can’t see that you wouldn’t 
touch me with the tongs if you could help it? It’s 
too late to snivel over me now, and I’m well enough 
as I am. You leave me alone to go to the devil my 
own way ; it’s all I ask of you. Good-bye. It’s 
Christmas, isn’t it ? I haven’t dreamed that at all 
events. Well, I wish you and Lionel as merry a 
Christmas as I mean to have. I can’t say more than 
that in the way of enjoyment.” 

He turns on his heel at the last words and slouches 
off down the narrow lane by which he had come. 
Ethel Rolleston stands for a while, looking after his 
receding form till the fog closes round it and she can 


SHUT OUT 


231 


see it no more. She feels as if she had seen a ghost ; 
and for her at least the enclosure before the deserted 
house next door will be haunted evermore— haunted 
by a forlorn and homeless figure sobbing there by 
the railings. 

As for the man, he goes on his way until he finds 
a door which — alas ! — is not closed against him. 


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>*^ 


TOMMY’S HERO. 


A STORY FOR SMALL BOYS. 

It was the night after Tommy had been taken to his 
first pantomime, and he had been lying asleep in his 
little bedroom (for now that he was nine he slept in 
the night nursery no longer) ; he had been asleep, 
when he was suddenly awakened by a brilliant red 
glare. At first he was afraid the house was on fire, 
but when the red turned to a dazzling green, he gave 
a' great gasp of delight, for he thought the transfor- 
mation scene was still going on. “And there’s all 
the best part still to come,” he said to himself. 

But as he became wider awake, he saw that it was 
out of the question to expect his bedroom to hold all 
those wonders, and he was almost surprised to see 
that there was even so much as a single fairy in it. 
A. fairy there was, nevertheless ; she stood there with 
a star in her hair, and her dress shimmering out all 
around her, just as he had seen her a few hours before, 
when she rose up, with little jerks, inside a great gilded 
shell, and spoke some poetry, which he didn’t quite 
catch. 

She spoke audibly enough now, nor was her voice 
so squeaky as it had sounded before. “Little boy,” 


TOMMY'S HERO, 


234 

she began, 1 am the ruling genius of Pantomime 
Fairyland. You entered my kingdom for the first 
time last night — ^how did you enjoy yourself?'’ 

Oh,” said Tommy, “so much; it was splendid, 
thank you ! ” 

She smiled and seemed well pleased. “ I always 
call to inquire on a new acquaintance,” she said. 
“ And so you like our realms, as every sensible boy 
does? Well, Tommy, it is in my power to reward 
you ; every night for a certain time you shall see 
again the things you liked best. What did you like 
best ? ” 

“ The clown part,” said Tommy, promptly. 

For it ought to be said here that he was a boy who 
had always had a leaning to the kind of practical fun 
which he saw carried out by the clown to a pitch of 
perfection which at once enchanted and humbled 
him. Till that harlequinade, he had thought himself 
a funny boy in his way, and it had surprised him that 
his family had not found him more amusing than they 
did ; but now he felt all at once that he was only a 
very humble beginner, and had never understood what 
real fun was. 

For he had not soared much above hiding behind 
doors, and popping out suddenly on a passing servant, 
causing her to “jump” delightfully ; once, indeed, he 
used to be able to ‘ ‘ sell ” his family by pretending all 
manner of calamities, but they had grown so stupid 
lately that they never believed a single word he said. 

No, the clown would not own him as a follower ; 
he would despise his little attempts at practical jokes. 
“ Still,” thought Tommy, “ I can try to be more like 


TOMMY HERO. 


235 

him ; perhaps he will come to hear of me some 
day 1 ” 

For he had never met any one he admired half so 
much as that clown, who was always in a good temper 
(to be sure he had everything his own way — but then 
he deserved to), always quick and ready with his 
excuses ; and if he did run away in times of danger, 
it was not because he was really afraid ! Then how 
deliciously impudent he was to shopkeepers ! Who 
but he would have dared to cheapen a large fish by 
making a door mat of it, or to ask the prices of cheeses 
on purpose to throw mud at them ? Not that he 
couldn’t be serious when he chose — for once he un- 
furled a Union Jack and said something quite noble, 
which made everybody clap their hands for two 
minutes ; and he told people, the best shops to go to 
for a quantity of things, and he could not have been 
joking thetiy for they were the same names that were 
to be seen on all the hoardings. 

This will explain how it was natural that Tommy, 
on being asked which part of the pantomime he pre- 
ferred, should say, without the slightest hesitation, 

‘ ‘ Oh, the clown part ! ” 

The fairy seemed less pleased. “ The clown part ! ’* 
she repeated. “ What, those shop scenes tacked on 
right at the end without rhyme or reason ? ” 

“Yes,” said Tommy, “those ones ! ” 

“And the great wood with the shifting green and 
violet lights, and the white bands of fairies dancing 
in circles — didn’t you like them ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the candid Tommy ; “pretty well 
I didn’t care much for them.” 


TOMMy^S HERO. 


23^ 

Well/’ she said, ‘‘ but you liked the grand proces- 
sions, with all their gorgeous dresses and monstrous 
figures, surely you liked them / ” 

‘‘There was such a lot of it,” said Tommy. “The 
clown was the best” 

“And if you could, you’d rather see those last 
scenes again than all the rest ? ” she said, frowning a 
little. 

“ Oh, wouldn’t I just ! ” said Tommy ; “ but may I 
— really and truly ? ” 

“ I see you are not one of my boys,” said the Genius 
of Pantomime, rather sadly. “It so happens that 
those closing scenes are the very ones I have least 
control over — they are a part of my kingdom which 
has fallen into sad decay and rebellion. But one 
thing, O Tommy, I can do for you. I will give you 
the clown for a friend and companion — and much 
good may he do you ! ” 

“ But would he come ? ” he asked, hardly daring to 
believe in such condescension. 

“ He must, if / bid him ; it is for you to make him 
feel comfortable and at home with you ; — the longer 
you can keep him the better I shall be pleased.” 

“Oh, how kind of you ! ” he cried; “he shall stay 
all the holidays. I’d rather have him than anybody 
else. What fun we shall have— what fun ! ” 

The green fire faded out and the fairy with it. 
He must have fallen asleep again, for, when he opened 
his eyes, there was the clown at the foot of his bed 
making a face. 

“’Ullo!” said the clown; “I say, are you the 
nice little boy I was told to come and stay with ? ” 


TOMMY^S HERO. 


‘‘Yes, yes,” said Tommy ; “I am so glad to see 
you. Tm just going to get up.” 

“ I know you are,” said the clown, and upset him 
out of bed into the cold bath. 

This he could not help thinking a little bit unkind 
of the clown on such a cold morning, particularly as 
he followed it up by throwing a hair-brush, two pieces 
of soap, and a pair of shoes at him before he could 
get out again. 

But it woke him, at all events, and he ventured 
(with great respect) to throw one of the shoes back ; 
it just grazed the clown’s top-knot. 

To Tommy’s alarm, the clown set up a hullaballoo 
as if he was mortally injured. 

“ You cruel, unkind little boy,” he sobbed, “ to play 
so rough with a poor clown ! ” 

“But you threw them at me first,” pleaded Tommy, 
“And much harder, too ! ” 

“ I’m the oldest,” said the clown, “ and you’ve got 
to make me feel at home, or I shall go away again.” 

“I won’t do it again, and I’m very sorry,” pleaded 
Tommy ; but the clown wouldn’t be friends with him 
for ever so long, and was only appeased at last by 
being allowed to put Tommy upside down in a tall 
wicker basket which stood in a corner. 

Then he helped Tommy to dress by buttoning all 
his clothes the wrong way, and hiding his stockings 
and necktie. While he was doing this, Sarah, the 
under-nurse, came in, and he strutted up to her and 
began to dance quietly. “Go away, imperence,” 
said Sarah. 

“Beautiful gal,” said the clown (though Sarah was 


TOMMY HERO. 


238 

extremely plain), “I love yer !” and he put out his 
tongue and wagged his head at her until she ran out 
of the room in terror. 

He looked so absurd that Tommy was delighted 
with him again, and yet, when the bell rang for 
breakfast, he felt obliged to give his new friend a hint. 

“I say,” he said, “ you don’t mind my telling you 
— but mother’s very particular about manners at 
table ; ” but the clown relieved him instantly by saying 
that so was he — very particular ; and he slid down 
the banisters and turned somersaults in the hall 
until Tommy joined him. 

I do hope father and mother won’t be unkind to 
him,” he thought, as he went in, “because he does 
seem to feel things so.” 

But nothing could be more polite than the welcome 
Tommy’s parents gave the stranger, as he came in, 
bowing very low, and making a queer little skipping 
step. Tommy’s mother said she was always glad to 
see any friend of her boy’s, while his father begged 
the clown to make himself quite at home. All he said 
was, “I’m disgusted to make your acquaintance;” 
but he certainly made himself at home — in fact, he 
was not quite so particular about his manners as he 
had led Tommy to expect. 

He volunteered to divide the sausages and bacon 
himself, and did so in such a way that everybody else 
got very little and he himself got a great deal. If it 
had been anybody else, Tommy would certainly have 
called this “piggish; ” as it was, he tried to think it 
was all fun, and that he himself had no particular 
appetite. 


TOMMY^S HERO. 


His cousin Barbara, a little girl of about his own 
age, was staying with them just then, and came down 
presently to breakfast. ^‘Oh, my ! ” said the clown, 
laying a great red hand on his heart, ‘ ‘ what a nice 
little gal you are, ain’t yer ? Come and sit by me, 
my dear.” 

“No, thank you ; Tm going to sit by Aunt Mary,” 
she replied, looking rather shy and surprised. 

“Allow me, missy,” he persisted, “to pass you 
the strawberry-jam and the muffins ! ” 

“I’ll have some jam, thank you,” she replied. 

He looked round and chuckled. “ Oh, I say ; that 
little gal said ‘ thank you ’ before she got it ! ” he ex- 
claimed. “There ain’t no muffins, and I’ve eaten all 
the jam !” which made Tommy choke with laughter. 

Barbara flushed. “That’s a very stupid joke,” she 
pronounced severely, “ and rude, too ; it’s a pity you 
weren’t taught to behave better when you were 
young. ” 

“ So I was ! ”said the clown with his mouth full. 

“Then you’ve forgotten it,” she said; “you’re 
nothing but a big baby, that you are ! ” 

“ Yah ! ” retorted the clown ; “so are you a big 
baby ! ” which, as even Tommy saw, was not a very 
brilliant reply. It was a singular fact about the 
clown that the slightest check seemed to take away 
all his brilliancy. 

“ You know you’re not telling the truth now, ’’said 
Barbara, so contemptuously, that the clown began to 
weep bitterly. “She says I don’t speak the truth !” 
he complained, “and she knows it will be my aunfls 
birthday last Toosday ! ” 


TOMMY’S HERO. 


t\0 

“ You great silly thing, what has that to do with 
it?” cried Barbara, indignantly. ‘‘What is there to 
cry about? ” which very nearly made Tommy quarrel 
with her, for why couldn’t she be polite to his friend ? 

However, the clown soon dried his eyes on the 
tablecloth, and recovered his cheerfulness ; and pres- 
ently he noticed the Times lying folded by Tommy’s 
papa’s plate. 

“ Oh, I say, mister,” he said, “shall I air the news- 
paper for yer ? ” 

“ Thank you, if you will,” was the polite reply. 

He shook it all out in one great sheet and wrapped 
it round him, and waddled about in it until Tommy 
nearly rolled off his seat with delight. 

‘ ‘ When you’ve quite done with it ” his father 

was saying mildly, as the clown made a great hole 
in the middle and thrust his head out of it with a 
bland smile. 

“I’m only just looking through it,” he explained ; 
“you can have it now,” and he rolled it up in a tight 
ball and threw it at his host’s head. 

Breakfast was certainly not such a dull meal as 
usual that morning. Tommy thought ; but he wished 
his people, would show a little more appreciation, 
instead of sitting there all stiff and surprised ; he was 
afraid the clown would feel discouraged. 

When his papa undid the ball, the paper was 
found to be torn into long strips, which delighted 
Tommy ; but his father, on the other hand, seemed 
annoyed, possibly because it was not so easy to 
read in that form. Meanwhile, the clown busied 
himself in emptying the butter-dish into his pockets. 


TOMMY'S HERO. 


241 


and this did shock the boy a little, for he knew it was 
not polite to pocket things at meals, and wondered 
how he could be so nasty. 

Breakfast was over at last, and the clown took 
Tommy’s arm and walked upstairs to the first floor 
with him, 

''Who’s in there?” he asked, as they passed the 
spare bedroom. 

" Granny,” said the boy ; "she’s staying with us ; 
only she always has breakfast in her room, you 
know.” 

"Why, you don’t mean to say you’ve got a 
granny ! ” cried the clown, with joy ; "you are a nice 
little boy; now we’ll have some fun with her.” 
Tommy felt doubtful whether she could be induced 
to join them so early in the morning, and said so. 
"You knock and say you’ve got a present for her if 
she’ll come out,” suggested the clown. 

"But I haven’t,” objected Tommy; "wouldn’t 
that be a story ? ” He had unaccountably forgotten 
his old fondness for ' ' sells. ” 

' ' Of course it would, ” said the clown . ' ' I’m al ways 
a-tellin’ of ’em, I am.” 

Tommy was shocked once more, as he realised 
that his friend was not a truthful clown. But he 
knocked at the door, nevertheless, and asked his 
grandmother to come out and see a friend of his. 

"Wait one minute, my boy,” she answered, "and 
I’ll come out.” 

Tommy was surprised to see his companion pre- 
paring to lie, face downwards, on the mat just out- 
side the door. 

16 


242 


TOMMY^S HERO. 


Get up/' he said ; ''you’ll trip grandma up if you 
stay there. ” 

" That’s what I’m doing it for, stoopid,” said the 
clown. 

" But it will hurt her,” he cried. 

"Nothing hurts old women,” said the clown; 
"I’ve tripped up 'undreds of ’em, and I ought to 
know.” 

"Well, you sha’n’t trip up my granny anyhow,” 
said Tommy stoutly ; for he was not a bad-hearted 
boy, and his grandmother had given him a splen- 
did box of soldiers on Christmas Day., " Don’t come 
out, granny ; it’s a mistake,” he shouted. 

The clown rose with a look of disgust. 

" Do you call this acting like a friend to me?” he 
demanded. 

"Well,” said Tommy apologetically, "she’s my 
granny, you see.” 

‘ ' She ain’t my granny, and if she was. I’d let you 
trip her up, I would ; I ain’t selfish. I sha’n’t stop 
with you any longer.” 

" Oh, do,” said Tommy ; "we’ll go and play some- 
where else.” 

"Well,” said the clown, relenting, "if you’re a 
good boy you shall see me make a butter slide in the 
hall.” 

Then Tommy saw how he had wronged him in 
thinking he had pocketed the butter out of mere 
greediness, and he felt ashamed and penitent ; the 
clown made a beautiful slide, though Tommy wished 
he would not insist upon putting all the butter that 
was left down his back. 


TOMMY^S HERO, 


243 

There’s a ring at the bell,” said the clown ; “ I’ll 
open the door, and you hide and see the fun.” 

So Tommy hid himself round a corner as the door 
opened. 

‘‘Walk in, sir,” said the clown politely. 

“ Master Tommy in ? ” said a jolly, hearty voice. 
It was dear old Uncle John, who had taken him to 
the pantomime the night before. “I thought I’d look 
in and see if he would care to come with me to the 

Crystal oh ! ” And there was a scuffling noise 

and a heavy bump. 

Tommy ran out, full of remorse. Uncle John was 
sitting on the tiles rubbing his head, and, oddly 
enough, did not look at all funny. 

“Oh, uncle, ” cried the boy, “you’re not hurt? I 
didn’t know it was you ! ” 

“I’m a bit shaken, my boy, that’s all,” said his 
uncle ; ‘ ‘ one doesn’t come down like a feather at my 
age.” And he picked himself slowly up. “Well, I 
must get home again,” he said; “no Crystal Palace 
to-day. Tommy, after this. Good-bye.” 

And he went slowly out, leaving Tommy with the 
feeling that he had had enough of slides. He even 
wiped the flooring clean again with a waterproof and 
the clothes-brush, though the clown (who had been 
hiding) tried to prevent him. 

“ We ain’t ’ad ’arf the fun out of it yet ! ” he com- 
plained (he always spoke in rather a common way, 
as Tommy began to notice with pain). 

“ I’ve had enough,” said Tommy. “ It was my 
Uncle John who slipped down that time, and he’s 


244 


TOMMY^S HERO. 


hurt, and he’d come to take me to the Crystal 
Palace ! ” 

“Well, he hadn’t come to take me’' said the clown ; 
“you are stingy about your relations, you are; you 
ain’t ’arf a boy for a bit o’ fun.” 

Tommy felt this rebuke very much, he had hoped 
so to gain the clown’s esteem ; but he would not give 
in, he only suggested humbly that they should go up 
into the play-room. 

The play-room was at the top of the house, and 
Barbara and two little sisters of Tommy’s were play- 
ing there when they came in, the clown turning in 
his toes and making awful faces. 

The two little girls ran into a corner, and seemed 
considerably frightened by the stranger’s appearance, 
but Barbara reassured them. 

“Don’t take any notice,” she said, “it’s only a 
horrid friend of Tommy’s. He won’t interfere with 
us. ” 

“Oh, Barbara,” the boy protested, “he’s awfully 
nice if you only knew him. He can make you laugh. 
Do let us play with you. He wants to, and he won’t 
be rough.” 

“Do,” pleaded the clown, “ I’ll behave so pretty ! ” 

“Well,” said Barbara, “ mind you do, then, or you 
shan’t stop.” 

And for a little while he did behave himself. Tom- 
my showed him his new soldiers, and he seemed 
quite interested ; and then he had a ride on the 
rocking-horse, and was sorry when it broke down 
under him ; and after that he came suddenly upon a 
beautiful doll which belonged to the youngest sister. 


TOMMY^S HERO. 


245 

Do let me nurse it,” he said, and the little girl 
gave it up timidly. Of course he nursed it the wrong 
way up, and at last he forgot, and sat down on it, 
the head which was wax, being crushed to pieces ! 

Tommy was in fits of laughter at the droll face he 
made as he held out the crushed doll at arm s length, 
and looked at it with one eye shut, exclaiming, “PoOr 
thing ! what a pity ! I do 'ope I aven't made its 'ead 
ache ! ” 

But the two little girls were crying bitterly in one 
another's arms, and Barbara turned on the clown 
with tremendous indignation. 

“You did it on purpose ; you know you did ! '' she 
said. 

“Go away, little girl ; don't talk to me!” said the 
clown, putting Tommy in front of him. 

“Tommy,” she said, “what did you bring your 
friend up here for ? He only spoils everything he's 
allowed to touch. Take him away I ” 

“Barbara,” pleaded Tommy, “he’s a visitor, you 
know ! ” 

“I don’t care,” she replied. ^'Mr. Clown, you 
shan't stay here ; this is our room and we don't want 
you. Go away I ” She walked towards him looking 
so fierce that he backed hastily. “Go downstairs,” 
she said, pointing to the door. “You, too,Tommy, 
for you encouraged him ! ” 

“ Nyah, nyah, nyah 1 ” said the clown, a sound by 
which he intended to imitate her anger. “ Oh, please. 
I'm going ; remember me to your mother.” And he 
left the room, followed rather sadly by Tommy, who 
felt that Barbara was angry with him. “That's a 


246 


TOMMY^S HERO, 


very disagribble little girl,” remarked the clown, con- 
fidentially, when they were safe outside, and Tommy 
thought it wiser to agree. 

What have you got in your pockets ” he asked 
presently, seeing a hard bulge in his friend’s white 
trunks. 

“Only some o’ your nice soldiers,” said the clown, 
and walked into the school-room, where there was a 
fire burning. “Are they brave V’ he asked. 

“Very,” said Tommy, who had quite persuaded 
himself that this was so. “ Look here, we’ll have a 
battle.” He thought a battle would keep the clown 
quiet. “ Here’s two cannon and peas, and you shall 
be the French and I’ll be English.” 

‘ ‘ All right, ” said the clown, and took his share of 
the soldiers and calmly put them all in the middle of 
the red-hot coals. “ I want to be quite sure they can 
stand fire first,” he explained ; and then, as they 
melted, he said, “There, you see, they’re all running 
away. I never seen such cowards.” 

Tommy was in a great rage, and could almost have 
cried, if it had not been babyish, for they were his 
best regiments which he could see dropping down in 
great glittering stars on the ashes below. “ That’s a 
caddish thing to do,” he said, with difficulty ; “I 
didn’t give them to you to put in the fire ! ” 

“ Oh, I thought you did,” said the clown, “ I beg 
your pardon ; ” and he threw the rest after them as 
he spoke. 

“You’re a beast !” cried Tommy indignantly; 
“ I’ve done with you, after this.” 

“ Oh, no, yer ain’t,” he returned. 


TOMMY HERO. 


247 

“ I have, though/’ said Tommy ; we’re not friends 
any longer.” 

“ All right,” said the clown ; when I’m not friends 
with any one, I take and use the red-’ot poker to ’em,” 
and he put it in the fire to heat as he spoke. 

This terrified the boy. It was no use trying to 
argue with the clown, and he had seen how he used 
a red-hot poker. “ Well, I’ll forgive you this time,” 
he said hastily ; ‘ ‘ let’s come away from here. ” 

“ I tell you what,” said the clown, “ youandme’ll 
go down in the kitchen and make a pie.” 

Tommy forgot his injuries at this delightful idea ; 
he knew what the clown’s notion of pie-making 
would be. “ Yes,” he said eagerly, ‘‘ that will be 
jolly ; only I don’t know,” he added doubtfully, ‘‘ if 
cook will let us.” 

However, the clown soon managed to secure the 
kitchen to himself ; he had merely to attempt to kiss 
the cook once or twice and throw the best dinner 
service at the other servants, and they were left quite 
alone to do as they pleased. 

What fun it was, to begin with ! The clown 
brought out a large deep dish, and began by putting 
a whole turkey and an unskinned hare in it out of the 
larder; after that he put in sausages, jam, pickled 
walnuts, and lemons, and, in short, the first thing 
that came to hand. 

“ It ain’t ’arf full yet,” he said at last, as he looked 
gravely into the pie. 

“No,” said Tommy sympathetically, “can’t we 
get anything else to put in ? ” 

“ The very thing,” cried the clown, “ you’re just 


TOMMY'S HERO. 


248 

about the right size to fill up — my 1 what a pie it’s 
going to be, eh?” And he caught up his young 
friend, just as he was, rammed him into the pie, and 
poured sauce on him. 

But he kicked and howled until the clown grew 
seriously displeased. “Why carn’t you lay quiet,” 
he said angrily, “like the turkey does? you don't 
deserve to be put into such a nice pie ! ” 

“ If you make a pie of me,” said Tommy artfully, 
“ there’ll be nobody to look on and laugh at you, you 
know ! ” 

“ No more there won’t, ’’said the clown, and allowed 
him to crawl out, all over sauce. “ It was a pity,” 
he declared, ‘ ‘ because he fitted so nicely, and now 
they would have to look about for something else ; ” 
but he contrived to make a shift with the contents of 
the cook’s work-basket, which he poured in — reels, 
pincushions, wax, and all. He had tried to put the 
kitchen cat in too, but she scratched his hands and 
could not be induced to form the finishing touch to 
the pie. 

How the clown got the paste and rolled it, and 
made Tommy in a mess with it, and how the pie was 
finished at last, would take too long to tell here ; but 
somehow it was not quite such capital fun as he had 
expected — it seemed to want the pantomime music 
or something ; and then Tommy was always dread- 
ing lest the clown should change his mind at the last 
minute, and put him in the pie after all. 

Even when it was safely in the oven he had another 
fear lest he should be made to stay and eat it, for it 
had such very peculiar things in it that it could not 


TOMMY^S HERO. 


249 

be at all nice. Fortunately, as soon as it was put away 
the clown seemed to weary of it himself. 

^‘Let me and you go and take a walk,'’ he suggested. 

Tommy caught at the proposal, for he was fast 
becoming afraid of the clown, and felt really glad to 
get him out of the house ; so he got his cap, and the 
clown put on a brown overcoat and a tall hat, under 
which his white and red face looked stranger than 
ever, and they sallied forth together. 

Once Tommy would have thought it a high privi- 
lege to be allowed to go out shopping with a clown' j 
but, if the plain truth must be told, he did not enjoy 
himself so very much after all. People seemed to 
stare at them so, for one thing, and he felt almost 
ashamed of his companion, whose behaviour was 
outrageously ridiculous. They went to all the family 
tradesmen, to whom Tommy was, of course, well 
known, and the clown would order the most impossi- 
ble things, and say they were for Tommy ! Once he 
even pushed him into a large draper s shop, full of 
pretty and contemptuous young ladies, and basely 
left him to explain his presence as he could. 

But it was worse when they happened to meet an 
Italian boy with a tray of plaster images on his head. 

‘'Here’s a lark!” said the clown, and elbowed 
Tommy against him in such a way that the tray slipped 
and all the images fell to the ground with a crash. 

It was certainly amusing to see all the pieces roll- 
ing about ; but, while Tommy was still laughing, 
the boy beg^n to howl and denounce him to the 
crowd which gathered round them. The crowd de- 
clared that it was a shame, and that Tommy ought 


250 


TOMMY HERO. 


to be made to pay for it ; and no one said so more 
loudly and indignantly than the clown ! 

Before he could escape he had to give his father s 
name and address, and promise that he would pay for 
the damage, after which he joined the clown (who had 
strolled on) with a heavy heart, for he knew that that 
business would stop all his pocket-money for years 
after he was grown up ! He even ventured to re- 
proach his friend : “I shan’t sneak of you, of course,” 
he said, ‘‘but you know you did it!” The clown’s 
only answer to this was a reproof for telling wicked 
stories. 

At last they passed a confectioner’s, and the clown 
suddenly remembered that he was hungry, so they 
went in, and he borrowed sixpence from Tommy, 
which he spent in buns. 

He ate them all himself slowly, and was so very 
quiet and well-behaved all the time that Tommy 
hoped he was sobering down. They had gone a little 
way from the shop when he found that the clown was 
eating tarts. 

“You might give me one,” said Tommy; and the 
clown, after looking over his shoulder, actually gave 
him all he had left, filling his pocket with them, in fact. 

“I never saw you buy them,” he said wonderingly. 
which the clown said was very peculiar ; and just then 
an attendant came up breathlessly. 

“You forgot to pay for those tarts,” she said. 

The clown replied that he never took pastry. She 
insisted that they were gone, and he must have taken 
them. 

“It wasn’t me, please,” said the clown; “it was 


TOMMY'S HERO. 


251 

• this little boy done it. Why, he’s got a jam tart in 
his pocket now. Where’s a policeman ? ” 

Tommy was so thunderstruck by this treachery 
that he could say nothing. It was only what he 
might have expected, for had not the clown served 
the pantaloon exactly the same the night before.? 
But that did not make the situation any the funnier 
now, particularly as the clown made such a noise that 
two real policemen came hurrying up. 

Tommy did not wait for them. No one held him, 
and he ran away at the top of his speed. What a 
nightmare sort of run it was ! — the policemen chasing 
him, and the clown urging them on at the top of his 
voice. Everybody he passed turned round and ran 
after him too. 

Still he kept ahead. He was surprised to find how 
fast he could run, and all at once he remembered that 
he was running the opposite way from home. Quick 
as thought he turned up the first street he came to, 
hoping to throw them off the scent and get home by 
a back way. 

For the moment he thought he had got rid of them ; 
but just as he stopped to take breath, they all came 
whooping and hallooing round the corner after him ; 
and he had to scamper on, panting, and sobbing, and 
staggering, and almost out of his mind with fright. 
If he could only get home first, and tell his mother ! 
But they were gaining on him, and the clown was 
leading and roaring with delight as he drew closer and 
closer. He came to a point where two roads met. 
It was round another corner, and they could not see 
him. He ran down one, and, to his immense relief. 


252 


TOMMY^S HERO. 


found they had taken the other. He was saved, for 
his house was quite near now. 

He tried to hasten, but the pavement was all slushy 
and slippery, and his boots felt heavier and heavier, 
and, to add to his misery, the pursuers had found out 
their mistake. As he looked back, he could see the 
clown galloping round the corner and hear his yell of 
discovery. 

*‘Oh, fairy, dear fairy,” he gasped, ^‘save me this 
time. I do like your part best, now ! ” 

She must have heard him and taken pity, for in a 
second he had reached his door, and it flew open 
before him. He was not safe even yet, so he rushed 
upstairs to his bedroom, and bounced, just as he was, 
into his bed. 

“ If they come up Til pretend Tm ill,” he thought, 
as he covered his head with the bedclothes. 

They were coming up, all of them. There was a 
great trampling on the stairs. He heard the clown 
officiously shouting: ‘‘This way, Mr. Policeman, 
sir ! ” and then a tremendous battering at his door. 

He lay there shivering under the blankets. 

“Perhaps they’ll think the door’s locked, and go 
away,” he tried to hope, and the battering went on 
not quite so violently. 

“Master Tommy! Master Tommy!” It was 
Sarah’s voice. They had got her to come up and 
tempt him out. Well, she wouldn't, then ! 

And then — oh ! horror ! — the door was thrown open. 
He sprang out of bed in an agony. 

“Sarah! Sarah! keep them out,” he gasped. 
“ Don’t let them take me away 1 ” 


TOMMY^S HERO, 


«53 

^‘Lor’, Master Tommy! keep who out?” said 
Sarah wonderingly. 

“The — ^the clown — and the policeman,” he said. 
“I know they're behind the door.” 

“There, there 1 ” said Sarah ; “ why, you ain't done 
dreaming yet. That's what comes of going out to 
these late pantomimes. Rub your eyes ; it's nearly 
eight o'clock.” 

Tommy could have hugged her. It was only a 
dream after all, then. As he stood there, shivering 
in his nightgown, the nightmare clown began to melt 
away, though even yet some of the adventures he had 
gone through seemed too vivid to be quite imaginary. 

Singularly enough, his Uncle John actually did call 
that morning, and to take him to the Crystal Palace, 
too ; and as there was no butter-slide for him to fall 
down on, they were able to go. On the way Tommy 
told him all about his unpleasant dream. 

“I shall always hate a clown after this, uncle,” he 
said, as he concluded. 

“My good Tommy,” said his uncle, “when you 
are fortunate enough to dream a dream with a moral 
in it, don't go and apply it the wrong way up. The 
real clown, like a sensible man, keeps his fun for the 
place where it is harmless and appreciated, and away 
from the pantomime conducts himself like any 
other respectable person. Now, your dream clown. 
Tommy ” 

“I know,” said Tommy, meekly. “Should you 
think the pantomime was good here. Uncle John ? ” 


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A CANINE ISHMAEL. 

(from the notes of a diner-out. ) 

^‘Tell me,” she said suddenly, with a pretty imperi- 
ousness that seemed to belong to her, ‘ ‘ are you fond 
of dogs ? ” How we arrived at the subject I forget 
now, but I know she had just been describing how a 
collie at a dog-show she had visited lately had sud- 
denly thrown his forepaws round her neck in a burst 
of affection — a proceeding which, in my own mind 
(although I prudently kept this to myself), I con- 
sidered less astonishing than she appeared to do. 

For I had had the privilege of taking her in to 
dinner, and the meal had not reached a very advanced 
stage before I had come to the conclusion that she 
was the most charming, if not the loveliest person 
I had ever met. 

It was fortunate for me that I was honestly able to 
answer her question in a satisfactory manner, for, 
had it been otherwise, I doubt whether she would 
have deigned to bestow much more of her conversa- 
tion upon me. 

^‘Then I wonder,” she said next, meditatively, “if 
you would care to hear about a dog that belonged 
to — to some one I know very well ? Or would it bore 
you?” 


A CANINE ISHMAEL. 


256 

I am very certain that if she had volunteered to 
relate the adventures of Telemachus, or the history 
of the Thirty Years’ War, I should have accepted the 
proposal with a quite genuine gratitude. As it was, 
I made it sufficiently plain that I should care very 
much indeed to hear about that dog. 

She paused for a moment to reject an unfortunate 
entree (which I. confess to doing my best to console), 
and then she began her story. I shall try to set it 
down as nearly as possible in her own words, although 
I cannot hope to convey the peculiar charm and 
interest that she gave it for me. It was not, I need 
hardly say, told all at once, but was subject to the 
inevitable interruptions which render a dinner-table 
intimacy so piquantly precarious. 

“This dog,” she began quietly, without any air of 
beginning a story, “this dog was called Pepper. He 
was not much to look at — rather a rough, mongrelly 
kind of animal ; and he and a young man had kept 
house together for a long time, for the young man 
was a bachelor and lived in chambers by himself. 
He always used to say that he didn’t like to get 
engaged to any one, because he was sure it would put 
Pepper out so fearfully. However, he met somebody 
at last who made him forget about Pepper, and he 
proposed and was accepted — and then, you know,” 
she added, as a little dimple came in her cheek, “he 
had to go home and break the news to the dog. ” 

She had just got to this point, when, taking 
advantage of a pause she made, the man on her other 
side (who was, I daresay, strictly within his rights, 
although I remember at the time considering him 


A CANINE ISHMAEL, 


257 

a pushing beast) struck in with some remark which 
she turned to answer, leaving me leisure to reflect. 

I was feeling vaguely uncomfortable about this 
story ; something, it would be hard to say what, in 
her way of mentioning Pepper’s owner made me 
suspect that he was more than a mere acquaintance 
of hers. 

Was it she^ then, who was responsible for ? It 

was no business of mine, of course; I had never met 
her in my life till that evening — ^but I began to be 
impatient to hear the rest. 

And at last she turned to me again : ‘‘I hope you 
haven’t forgotten that I was in the middle of a story. 
You haven’t? And you would really like me to go 
on? Well, then — oh yes, when Pepper was told, he 
was naturally a little annoyed at first. I daresay he 
considered he ought to have been consulted previously. 
But, as soon as he had seen the lady, he withdrew 
all opposition — which his master declared was a tre- 
mendous load off his mind, for Pepper was rather 
a difficult dog, and slow as a rule to take strangers 
into his affections, a little snappy and surly, and very 
easily hurt or offended. Don’t you know dogs who 
are sensitive like that ? / do, and I’m always so 
sorry for them— they feel little things so much, and 
one never can find out what’s the matter, and have it 
out with them ! Sometimes it’s shyness ; once I had 
a dog who was quite painfully shy — self-conscious- 
ness it was really, I suppose, for he always fancied 
everybody was looking at him, and often when peo- 
ple were calling he would come and hide his face in 
the folds of my dress till they had gone — it was too 


A CANINE ISffMAEL, 


258 

ridiculous ! But about Pepper. He was devoted to 
his new mistress from the very first. I am not sure 
that she was quite so struck with him, for he was not 
at all a lady’s dog, and his manners had been very 
much neglected. Still, she came quite to like him in 
time; and when they were married. Pepper went 
with them for the honeymoon.” 

“ When they were married!’’ I glanced at the 
card which lay half-hidden by her plate. Surely Miss 
So-and-so was written on it.? — yes, it was certainly 

Miss.” It was odd that such a circumstance should 
have increased my enjoyment of the story, perhaps — 
but it undoubtedly did. 

“After the honeymoon,” my neighbour continued, 
“ they came to live in the new house, which was 
quite a tiny one, and Pepper was a very important 
personage in it indeed. He had his mistress all to 
himself for the greater part of the most days, as his 
master had to be away in town ; so she used to talk 
to him intimately, and tell him more than she would 
have thought of confiding to most people. Some- 
times when she thought there was no fear of callers 
coming, she would make him play, and this was 
quite a new sensation for Pepper, who was a serious- 
minded animal, and took very solemn views of life. 
At first he hadn’t the faintest idea what was expected 
of him ; it must have been rather like trying to romp 
with a parish beadle, he was so intensely respectable 1 
But as soon as he once grasped the notion and under- 
stood that no liberty was intended, he lent himself to 
it readily enough and learnt to gambol quite credit- 
ably. Then he was made much of in all sorts of 


A CANINE ISNMAEL. 


i59 

ways ; she washed him twice a week with her very 
own hands — which his master would never have 
dreamt of doing — and she was always trying new 
ribbons on his complexion. That rather bored him at 
first, but it ended by making him a little conceited 
about his appearance. Altogether he was dearly fond 
of her, and I don’t believe he had ever been happier in 
all his life than he was in those days. Only, unfor- 
tunately, it was all too good to last.” 

Here I had to pass olives or something to some- 
body, and the other man, seeing his chance, and, to 
do him justice, with no idea that he was interrupting 
a story, struck in once more, so that the history of 
Pepper had to remain in abeyance for several minutes. 

My uneasiness returned. Could there be a mis- 
take about that name-card after all ? Cards do get 
re-arranged sometimes, and she seemed to know that 
young couple so very intimately. I tried to remem- 
ber whether I had been introduced to her as a Miss 
or Mrs. So-and-so, but without success. There is 
some fatality which generally distracts one’s attention 
at the critical moment of introduction, and in this 
case it was perhaps easily accounted for. My turn 
came again, and she took up her.tale once more. “I 
think when I left off I was saying that Pepper’s hap- 
piness was too good to last. And so it was. For his 
mistress was ill, and, though he snuffed and scratched 
and whined at the door of her room for ever so long, 
they wouldn’t let him in. But he managed to slip in 
one day somehow, and jumped up on her lap and 
licked her hands and face, and almost went out of his 
mind with joy at seeing her again. Only (I told you 


260 


A CANIN-E ISffMAEt. 


he was a sensitive dog) it gradually struck him that 
she was not quile so pleased to see him as usual — and 
presently he found out the reason. There was an- 
other animal there, a new pet, which seemed to take 
up a good deal of her attention. Of course you 
guess what that was — but Pepper had never seen a 
baby before, and he took it as a personal slight and 
was dreadfully offended. He simply walked straight 
out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen, where 
he stayed for days. 

“ I don't think he enjoyed his sulk much, poor 
doggie ; perhaps he had an idea that when they saw 
how much he took it to heart they would send the 
baby away. But as time went on and this didn't 
seem to occur to them, he decided to come out ofthe 
sulks and look over the matter, and he came back 
quite prepared to resume the old footing. Only every- 
thing was different. No one seemed to notice that he 
was in the room now, and his mistress never invited 
him to have a game ; she even forgot to have him 
washed — and one of his peculiarities was that he had 
no objection to soap and warm water. The worst of 
it was, too, that before very long the baby followed 
him into the sitting-room, and, do what he could, he 
couldn't make the stupid little thing understand that 
it had no business there. If you think of it, a baby 
must strike a dog as a very inferior little animal : it 
can't bark (well, yes, it can howl), but it's no good 
whatever with rats, and yet everybody makes a 
tremendous fuss about it ! The baby got all poor 
Pepper's bows now ; and his mistress played games 
with it, though Pepper felt he could have done it ever 


A CANINE ISNMAEL. 


261 


SO much better, but he was never allowed to join in. 
So he used to lie on a rug and pretend he didn’t 
mind, though, really, I’m certain he felt it horribly. 
I always believe, you know, that people never give 
dogs half credit enough for feeling things, don’t you ? 

“Well, at last came the worst indignity of all: 
Pepper was driven from his rug — his own particular 
rug — to make room for the baby ; and when he had 
got away into a corner to cry quietly, all by himself, 
that wretched baby came and crawled after him and 
pulled his tail I 

“ He always had been particular about his tail, and 
never allowed anybody to touch it but very intimate 
friends, and even then under protest, so you can 
imagine how insulted he felt. 

“ It was too much for him, and he lost the last scrap 
of temper he had. They said he bit the baby, and 
I’m afraid he did — though not enough really to hurt 
it ; still, it howled fearfully, of course, and from that 
moment it was all over with poor Pepper — he was a 
ruined dog ! 

“ When his master came home that evening he was 
told the whole story. Pepper’s mistress said she 
would be ever so sorry to part with him, but, after 
his misbehaviour, she should never know a moment’s 
peace until he was out of the house — it really wasn’t 
safe for baby ! 

‘ ‘ And his master was sorry, naturally ; but I sup- 
pose he was beginning rather to like the baby himself, 
and so the end of it was that Pepper had to go. 
They did all they could for him ; found him a com- 
fortable home, with a friend who was looking out for 


262 


A CANINE ISNMAEL. 


a good house-dog, and wasn’t particular about breed, 
and, after that, they heard nothing of him for a long 
while. And, when they did hear, it was rather a bad 
report : the friend could do nothing with Pepper at 
all ; he had to tie him up in the stable, and then he 
snapped at every one who came near, and howled all 
night — they were really almost afraid of him. 

‘ ‘ So when Pepper’s mistress heard that, she felt 
more thankful than ever that the dog had been sent 
away, and tried to think no more about him. She 
had quite forgotten all about it, when, one day, a new 
nursemaid, who had taken the baby out for an airing, 
came back with a terrible account of a savage dog 
which had attacked them, and leaped up at the 
perambulator so persistently that it was as much as 
she could do to drive it away. And even then Pep- 
per’s mistress did not associate the dog with him ; she 
thought he had been destroyed long ago. 

“But the next time the nurse went out with the 
baby she took a thick stick with her, in case the dog 
should come again. And no sooner had she lifted the 
perambulator over the step, than the dog did come 
again, exactly as if he had been lying in wait for them 
ever since outside the gate. 

“ The nurse was a strong country girl, with plenty 
of pluck, and as the dog came leaping and barking 
about in a very alarming way, she hit him as hard as 
she could on his head. The wonder is she did not 
kill him on the spot, and, as it was, the blow turned 
him perfectly giddy and silly for a time, and he ran 
round and round in a dazed sort of way — do you think 
you could lower that candle-shade just a little ? 


A CANINE ISHMAEL. 


263 

Thanks 1 she broke off suddenly, as I obeyed. 
“ Well, she was going to strike again, when her mis- 
tress rushed out, just in time to stop her. For, you 
see, she had been watching at the window, and 
although the . poor beast was miserably thin, and 
rough, and neglected-looking, she knew at once that 
it must be Pepper, and that he was not in the least 
mad or dangerous, but only trying his best to make 
his peace with the baby. Very likely his dignity or 
his conscience or something wouldn't let him come 
back quite at once, you know ; and perhaps he 
thought he had better get the baby on his side first. 
And then all at once, his mistress — I heard all this 
through her, of course — his mistress suddenly re- 
membered how devoted Pepper had been to her, and 
how fond she had once been of him, and when she 
saw him standing, stupid and shivering, there, her 
heart softened to him, and she went to make it up 
with him, and tell him that he was forgiven and 
should come back and be her dog again, just as in the 
old days ! " 

Here she broke off for a moment. I did not venture 
to look at her, but I thought her voice trembled a 
little when she spoke again. ‘‘ I don't quite know 
I tell you all this. There was a time when I never 
could bear the end of it myself,” she said; “but I 
have begun, and I will finish now. Well, Pepper's 
mistress went towards him, and called him ; but — 
whether he was still too dizzy to quite understand 
who she was, or whether his pride came uppermost 
again, poor dear ! I don’t know — but he gave her just 
one look (she says she will never forget it — never ; it 


A CANINE ISHMAEL. 


264 

went straight to her heart), and then he walked very 
slowly and deliberately away. 

“She couldn’t bear it ; she followed ; she felt she 
simply must make him understand how very, very 
sorry she was for him ; but the moment he heard her 
he began to run faster and faster, until he was out of 
reach and out of sight, and she had to come back. I 
know she was crying bitterly by that time.” 

“And he never came back again ? ” I asked, after 
a silence. 

“Never again!” she said softly; “that was the 
very last they ever saw or heard of him. And — and 
IVe always loved every dog since for Pepper’s sake ! ” 

“ Pm almost glad he did decline to come back,” I 
declared; “it served his mistress right — she didn’t 
deserve anything else 1 ” 

“Ah, I didn’t want you to say that ! ” she protested ; 
“she never meant to be so unkind — it was all for the 
baby’s sake 1 ” 

I was distinctly astonished, for all her sympathy in 
telling the story had seemed to lie in the other direc- 
tion. 

“You don’t mean to say,” I cried involuntarily, 
“that you can find any excuses for her? I did not 
expect would take the baby’s part 1 ” 

“ But I did,” she confessed, with lowered eyes — “ I 
did take the baby’s part — it was all my doing that 
Pepper was sent away — I have been sorry enough for 
it since ! ” 

It was her own story she had been telling at 
second-hand after all — and she was not Miss So-and- 
so I I had entirely forgotten the existence of any 


A CANINE ISHMAEL, 


265 

other members of the party but our two selves, but 
at the moment of this discovery— which was doubly 
painful — I jvas recalled by a general rustle to the fact 
that we were at a dinner-party, and that our hostess 
had just given the signal. 

As I rose and drew back my chair to allow my 
neighbour to pass, she raised her eyes for a moment 
and said almost meekly : 

‘ ‘ I was the baby, you see I ” 


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MARJORY, 


INTRODUCTION. 

I HAVE thought myself justified in printing the fol- 
lovring narrative, found among the papers of my dead 
friend, Douglas Cameron, who left me discretion to 
deal with them as I saw fit. It was written indeed, 
as its opening words imply, rather for his own solace 
and relief than with the expectation that it would be 
read by any other. But, painful and intimate as it is 
in parts, I cannot think that any harm will be done by 
printing it now, with some necessary alterations in 
the names of the characters chiefly concerned. 

Before, however, leaving the story to speak for 
itself, I should like to state, in justice to my friend, 
that during the whole of my acquaintance with him, 
which began in our college days, I never saw any- 
thing to indicate the morbid timidity and weakness of 
character that seem to have marked him as a boy. 
Reserved he undoubtedly was, with a taste for solitude 
that made him shrink from the society of all but a 
small circle, and with a sensitive and shy nature 
which prevented him from doing himself complete 
justice ; but he was very capable of holding his own 
on occasion, and in his disposition, as I knew it, 
there was no want of moral courage, nor any trace 
of effeminacy. 


268 


MARJORY. 


How far he may have unconsciously exaggerated 
such failings in the revelation of his earlier self, or 
what the influence of such an experience as he relates 
may have done to strengthen the moral fibre, are points 
on which I can express no opinion any more than I 
can pledge myself to the credibility of the super- 
natural element of his story. 

It may be that only in the boy’s overwrought im- 
agination, the innocent Child-spirit came back to com- 
plete the work of love and pity she had begun in life ; 
but I know that he himself believed otherwise, and, 
truly, if those who leave us are permitted to return at 
all, it must be on some such errand as Maijory’s. 

Douglas Cameron’s life was short, and in it, so far 
as I am aware, he met no one who at all replaced his 
lost ideal. Of this I cannot be absolutely certain, for 
he was a reticent man in such matters ; but I think, had 
it been so, I should have known of it, for we were 
very close friends. One would hardly expect, per- 
haps, that an ordinary man would remain faithful all 
his days to the far-off memory of a child-love ; but 
then Cameron was not quite as other men, nor were 
his days long in the land. 

And if this ideal of his was never dimmed for him. 
by some grosser, and less spiritual, passion, who shall 
say that he may not have been a better and even a 
happier man in consequence. 

It is not without an effort that I have resolved to 
break, in the course of this narrative, the reserve 
maintained for nearly twenty years. But the chief 
reason for silence is removed now that all those are gone 


MARJORY. 269 

who might have been pained or harmed by what I 
have to tell, and, though I shrink still from reviving 
certain memories that are fraught with pain, there are 
others associated therewith which will surely bring 
consolation and relief. 

I must have been about eleven at the time I am 

speaking of, and the change which — for good or ill 

comes over most boys’ lives had not yet threatened 
mine. I had not left home for school, nor did it seem 
at all probable then that I should ever do so. 

When I read (I was a great reader) of Dotheboys 
Hall and Salem House— a combination of which es- 
tablishments formed my notion of school-life — it was 
with no more personal interest than a cripple might 
feel in perusing the notice of an impending conscrip- 
tion ; for from the battles of school-life I was fortu- 
nately exempted. 

I was the only son of a widow, and we led a 
secluded life in a London suburb. My mother took 
charge of my education herself, and, as far as mere 
acquirements went, I was certainly not behind other 
boys of my age. I owe too much to that loving and 
careful training. Heaven knows, to think of casting 
any reflection upon it here, but my surroundings were 
such as almost necessarily to exclude all bracing and 
hardening influences. 

My mother had few friends ; we were content with 
our own companionship, and of boys I knew and 
cared to know nothing ; in fact, I regarded a strange 
boy with much the same unreasoning aversion as 
many excellent women feel for the most ordinary 
cow. 


270 


MARJORV. 


I was happy to think that I should never be called 
upon to associate with them ; by-and-by, when I 
outgrew my mother’s teaching, I was to have a tutor, 
perhaps even go to college in time, and when I be- 
came a man I was to be a curate and live with 
my mother in a clematis-covered cottage in some 
pleasant village. 

She would often dwell on this future with a tender 
prospective pride ; she spoke of it on the very day 
that saw it shattered forever. 

For there came a morning when, on going to her 
with my lessons for the day, I was gladdened with 
an unexpected holiday. I little knew then — though I 
was to learn it soon enough — that my lessons had 
been all holidays, or that on that day they were to 
end forever. 

My mother had had one or two previous attacks 
of an illness which seemed to prostrate her for a short 
period, and as she soon regained her ordinary health, 

I did not think they could be of a serious nature. 

So I devoted my holiday cheerfully enough to the 
illumination of a text, on the gaudy colouring of 
which I found myself gazing two days later with a 
dull wonder, as at the work of a strange hand in a 
long dead past, for the boy who had painted that was 
a happy boy who had a mother, and for two endless 
days I had been alone. 

Those days, and many that followed, come back 
to me now but vaguely. I passed them mostly in 
a state of blank bewilderment caused by the double 
sense of sameness and strangeness in everything 
around me ; then there were times when this gave 


MARJORY, 


271 

way to a passionate anguish which refused all attempts 
at comfort, and times even — but very, very seldom — 
when I almost forgot what had happened to me. 

Our one servant remained in the house with me, 
and a friend and neighbour of my mother’s was 
constant in her endeavours to relieve my loneliness ; 
but I was impatient of them, I fear, and chiefly 
anxious to be left alone to indulge my melancholy 
unchecked. 

I remember how, as autumn began, and leaf after 
leaf fluttered down from the trees in our little garden, 
I watched them fall with a heavier heart, for they had 
known my mother, and now they, too, were desert- 
ing me. 

This morbid state of mind had lasted quite long 
enough when my uncle, who was my guardian, saw 
fit to put a summary end to it by sending me to 
school forthwith ; he would have softened the change 
for me by taking me to his own home first, but there 
was illness of some sort there, and this was out of the 
question. 

I was neither sorry nor glad when I heard of it, 
for all places were the same to me just then ; only, 
as the time drew near, I began to regard the future 
with a growing dread. 

The school was at some distance from London, 
and my uncle took me down by rail ; but the only 
fact I remember connected with the journey is that 
there was a boy in the carriage with us who cracked 
walnuts all the way, and I wondered if he was going 
to school too, and concluded that he was not or he 
would hardly eat quite so many walnuts. 


MARJORY. 


272 

Later we were passing through some wrought-iron 
gates, and down an avenue of young chestnuts, which 
made a gorgeous autumn canopy of scarlet, amber, 
and orange, up to a fine old red-brick house, with a 
high-pitched roof, and a cupola in which a big bell 
hung, tinted a warm gold by the afternoon sun. 

This was my school, and it did not look so very 
terrible after all. There was a big bow-window by 
the pillared portico, and, looking timidly in, I saw a 
girl of about my own age sitting there, absorbed in the 
book she was reading, her long brown hair drooping 
over her cheek and the hand on which it rested. 

She glanced up at the sound of the door-bell, and 
I felt her eyes examining me seriously and critically, 
and then I forgot everything but the fact that I was 
about to be introduced to my future schoolmaster, the 
Rev. Basil Dering. 

This was less of an ordeal than I had expected ; he 
had a strong, massively-cut, leonine face, free and 
abundant white hair, streaked with dark grey, but 
there was a kind light in his eyes as I looked up at 
them, and the firm mouth could smile, I found, pleas- 
antly enough. 

Mrs. Dering seemed younger, and was handsome, 
with a certain stateliness and decision of manner 
which put me less at my ease, and I was relieved to 
be told I might say good-bye to my uncle, and wander 
about the grounds as I liked. 

I was not surprised to pass through an empty 
schoolroom, and to descend by some steep stairs to 
a deserted playground, for we had been already told 
that the Michaelmas holidays were not over, and that 


MARJORY. 


the boys would not return for some days to come. 

It gave me a kind of satisfaction to think of my 
resemblance, just then, to my favourite David Copper- 
field, but I was to have a far pleasanter companion 
than poor lugubrious, flute-tootling Mr. Mell, for as I 
paced the damp paths paved with a mosaic of russet 
and yellow leaves, I heard light footsteps behind me, 
and turned to find myself face to face with the girl I 
had seen at the window. 

She stood there breathless for an instant, for she 
had hurried to overtake me, and against a background 
of crimson creepers I saw the brilliant face, with its 
soft but fearless brown eyes, small straight nose, 
spirited mouth, and crisp wavy golden-brown hair, 
which I see now almost as distinctly as I write. 

“You’re the new boy,” she said at length. “ I’ve 
come out to make you feel more at home. I suppose 
you don’t feel quite at home just yet ? ” 

“Not quite, thank you,” I said, lifting my cap with 
ceremony, for I had been taught to be particular 
about my manners ; “I have never been to school 
before, you see, Mjss Dering.” 

I think she was a little puzzled by so much polite- 
ness. “ I know,” she said softly ; “mother told me 
about it, and I’m very sorry. And I’m called Marjory 
generally. Shall you like school, do you think ? ” 

“ I might,” said I, “ if — if it wasn't for the boys ! ” 
“Boys aren’t bad,” she said; “ours are rather 
nice, I think. But perhaps you don't know many ? ” 
“ I know one,” I replied. 

“How old is he she wished to know. 

“Not very old — about three, I think,” I said. I 

i8 


MARJORY. 


274 

had never wished till then that my only male ac- 
quaintance had been of less tender years, but I felt 
now that he was rather small, and saw that Marjory 
was of the same opinion. 

“Why, he’s, only a baby ! ” she said ; “I thought 
you meant a real hoy. And is that all the boys you 
know } Are you fond of games ’’ 

“Some games — very,” said I. 

“ What’s your favourite game ? ” she demanded. 

“ Bezique,” I. answered, “or draughts.” 

“I meant outdoor games: draughts are indoor 
games— A indoor games, I mean — no, are an indoor 
game — and that doesn’t sound grammar ! But haven’t 
you ever played cricket ? Not ever, really ? I like it 
dreadfully myself, only I’m not allowed to play with 
the boys, and I’m sure I can bat well enough for the 
second eleven — Cartwright said I could last term — 
and I can bowl round-hand, and it’s all no use, just 
because I was born a girl ! Wouldn’t you like a game 
at something ? They haven’t taken in the croquet 
hoops yet ; shall we play at that ? ” 

But again I had to confess my ignorance of what 
was then the popular garden garqe. 

“What do you generally do to amuse youself, 
then ? ” she inquired. 

“I read, generally, or paint texts or outlines. 
Sometimes” — (I thought this accomplishment would 
surely appeal to her) — “ sometimes I do woolwork ! ” 

“I don’t think T would tell the boys that,” she 
advised rather gravely ; she evidently considered 
me a very desperate case. “ It’s such a pity, your 
not knowing any games. Suppose I taught you cro- 


MARJORY. 


*75 

quet, now ? It would be something” to go on with, 
and you’ll soon learn if you pay attention and do 
exactly what I tell you. ” 

I submitted myself meekly to her direction, and 
Marjory enjoyed her office of instructress for a time, 
until my extreme slowness wore out her patience, and 
she began to make little murmurs of disgust, for 
which she invariably apologised. “That’s enough 
for to-day ! ” she said at last, “ I’ll take you again to- 
morrow. But you really must try and pick up games, 
Cameron, or you’ll never be liked. Let me see, I 
wonder, if there’s time to teach you a little football. 
I think I could do that.” 

Before she could make any further arrangements 
the tea-bell rang, but when I lay down that night in 
my strange cold bed, hemmed round by other beds 
which were only less formidable than if they had 
been occupied, I did not feel so friendless as I might 
have done, and dreamed all night that Marjory was 
teaching me something I understood to be cricket, 
which, however, was more like a bloated kind of 
backgammon. 

The next day Marjory was allowed to go outwalk- 
ing with me, and I came home feeling that I had 
known her for quite a long time, while her manner to 
me had acquired a tone even more protecting than 
before, and she began to betray an anxiety as to my 
school prospects which filled me with uneasiness. 

“ I am so afraid the boys won’t like the way you 
talk,” she said on one occasion. 

“ I used to be told I spoke very correctly,” I said, 
verdantly enough. 


MARJORY. 


276 

“But not like boys talk. You see, Cameron, I 
ought to know, with such a lot of them about. I tell 
you what I could do, though— I could teach you most 
of their words— only I must run and ask mother first 
if I may. Teaching slang isn't the same as using it 
on my own account, is it ? ” 

Marjory darted off impulsively to ask leave, to 
return presently with a slow step and downcast face. 
“I mayn't," she announced. “Mother says ‘Cer- 
tainly not, ' so there's an end of that ! Still, I think 
myself it’s a decided pity." 

And more than once that day she would observe, 
as if to herself, “ I do wish they had let him come to 
school in different collars ! " 

I knew that these remarks, and others of a similar 
tendency, were prompted by her interest in my wel- 
fare, and I admired her too heartily already to be 
offended by them; still, I cannot say they added to 
my peace of mind. 

And on the last evening of the holidays she said 

Good-night " to me with some solemnity. “Every- 
thing will be different after this,'’ she said ; “I sha'n't 
be able to see nearly so much of you, because I'm 
not allowed to be much with the boys. But I shall 
be looking after you all the time, Cameron, and see- 
ing how you get on. And oh I I do hope you will 
try to be a popular kind of boy ! " 

I'm afraid I must own that this desire of Maijory's 
was not realised. I do not know that I tried to be — 
and I certainly was not — a popular boy. 


MARJORY, 


277 

The other boys, I now know, were by no means 
bad specimens of the English schoolboy, as will be 
evident when I state that, for a time, my deep mourn- 
ing was held by them to give me a claim to their for- 
bearance. 

But I had an unfortunate tendency to sudden floods 
of tears (apparently for no cause whatever, really from 
some secret spring of association, such as I remember 
was touched when I first found myself learning Latin 
from the same primer over which my mother and I 
had puzzled together), and these outbursts at first 
aroused my companions’ contempt, and finally their 
open ridicule- 

I could not conceal my shrinking dislike to their 
society, which was not calculated to make them more 
favourably disposed towards me ; while my tastes, 
my expressions, my ways of looking at things, were 
all at total variance with their own standards. 

The general disapproval might well have shown 
itself in a harsher manner than that of merely ignor- 
ing my existence — and it says much for the tone of 
the school that it did not ; unfortunately, I felt their 
indifference almost as keenly as I had dreaded their 
notice. 

From my masters I met with more favour, for I 
had been thoroughly well grounded, and found, 
besides, a temporary distraction in my school work ; 
but this was hardly likely to render me more beloved 
by my fellows, and so it came to pass that every day 
saw my isolation more complete. 

Something, however, made me anxious to hide this 
from Marjory’s eyes, and whenever she happened to 


MARJORY. 


278 

be looking on at us in the school grounds or the play- 
ing fields, I made dismal attempts to appear on terms 
of equality with the rest, and would hang about a 
group with as much pretence of belonging to it as I 
thought at all prudent. 

If she had had more opportunities of questioning 
me, she would have found me out long before ; as it 
was, the only occasion on which we were near one 
another was at the weekly drawing lesson, when, 
although she drew less and talked more than the 
Professor quite approved of, she was obliged to re- 
strict herself to a conversation which did not admit 
of confidences. 

But this negative neutral-tinted misery was not 
to last ; I was harmless enough, but then to some 
natures nothing is so offensive as inoffensiveness. 
My isolation was certain to raise me up an enemy in 
time, and he came in the person of one Clarence 
Ormsby. 

He was a sturdy, good-looking fellow, about two 
years older than myself, good at games, and, though 
not brilliant in other respects, rather idle than dull. 
He was popular in the school, and I believe his general 
disposition was by no means bad ; but there must 
have been some hidden flaw in his nature which 
might never have disclosed itself for any other but 
me. 

For me he had displayed, almost from the first, 
one of those special antipathies that want but little 
excuse to ripen into hatred. My personal appearance 
— I had the misfortune to be a decidedly plain boy — 
happened to be particularly displeasing to him, and, 


MARJORY. 


279 

as he had an unsparing- tongue, he used it to cover 
me with ridicule, until gradually, finding that I did 
not retaliate, he indulged in acts of petty oppression 
which, though not strictly bullying, were even niore 
harassing and humiliating. 

I suspect now that if I had made ever so slight 
a stand at the outset, I should have escaped further 
molestation ; but I was not pugnacious by nature, and 
never made the experiment ; partly, probably, from a 
theory on which I had been reared, that all violence 
was vulgar, but chiefly from a tendency, unnatural 
in one of my age and sex, to find a sentimental satis- 
faction in a certain degree of unhappiness. 

So that I can neither pity myself nor expect pity 
from others for woes which were so essentially my 
own creation, though they resulted, alas ! in misery 
that was real enough. 

It was inevitable that quick-sighted Marjory should 
discover the subjection into which I had fallen, and 
her final enlightenment was brought about in this 
manner. Ormsby and I were together alone, shortly 
before morning school, and he came towards me with 
an exercise of mine from which he had just been 
copying his own, for we were in the same classes, 
despite the difference in our ages, and he was in the 
habit of profiting thus by my industry. 

“Thanks, Cameron,” he said, with a sweetness 
which I distrusted, for he was not as a rule so lavish 
in his gratitude. “ IVe copied out that exercise of 
yours, but it's written so beastly badly that you’d 
better do it over again.” 

With which he deliberately tore the page he had 


28 o 


MARJORY. 


been copying from to scraps, which he threw in my 
face, and strolled out down to the playground. 

I was preparing submissively to do the exercise 
over again as well as I could in the short time that 
was left, when I was startled by a low cry of in- 
dignation, and looking round, saw Marjory standing 
in the doorway, and knew by her face that she had 
seen all. 

“Has Ormsby done that to you before?” she in- 
quired. 

“ Once or twice he has,” said L 

“And you let him ! ” she cried. “Oh, Cameron ! ” 

“What can I do?” I said. 

* ‘ I know what / would do, ” she replied. ^ ‘ I would 
slap his face, or pinch him. I wouldn't put up with 
it I ” 

^^Boys don't slap one another, or pinch,” I said, 
not displeased to find a weak place in her knowledge 
of us. 

“Well, they do something ” she said ; “a real boy 
would. But I don't think you are a real boy, Cameron. 
77/ show you what to do. Where's the exercise- 
that— that pig copied ! Ah ! I see it. And now- 
look!” (Here she tore his page as he had tom 
mine. ) 

“Now for, an envelope!” and from the Doctor's 
own desk she took an envelope, in which she placed 
the fragments, and wrote on the outside in her round, 
childish hand : “With Marjory's compliments, for 
being a bully.” 

He won t do that again, ” she said gleefully. 

“ He'll do worse,” I said in dismay ; “ I shall have 


MARJORY, 


281 


ro pay for it. Marjory, why didn't you leave things 
alone? I didn't complain — you know I didn't." 

She turned upon me, as well she might, in supreme 
disdain. “ Oh ! what a coward you are ! I wouldn’t 
believe all Cartwright told me about you when I 
asked — but I see it's all true. Why don’t you stick 
up for yourself ? ” 

I muttered something or other. 

‘‘ But you ought to. You'll never get on unless,” 
said Marjory, very decidedly. “Now, promise me 
you will, next time.” 

I sat there silent. I was disgusted with myself, 
and meanly angry with her for having rendered me 
so. 

“Then, listen,” she said impressively. “I prom- 
ised I would look after you, and I did mean to, but 
it's no use if you won’t help yourself. So, unless you 
say you won't go on being a coward any more, I 
shall have to leave you to your own way, and not 
take the least interest in you ever again.” 

“Then, you may,” I said stolidly; “I don't care.” 
I wondered, even while I spoke the words, what 
could be impelling me to treat spirited, warm-hearted 
Marjory like that, and I hate myself still at the recol- 
lection. 

“Good-bye, then,” she said very quietly; “I’m 
sorry, Cameron.” And she went out without another 
word. 

When Ormsby came in, I watched him apprehen- 
sively as he read the envelope upon his desk and saw 
its contents. He said nothing, however, though he 
shot a malignant glance in my direction ; but the 


282 


MARJORY. 


lesson was not lost upon him, for from that time he 
avoided all open, ill-treatment of me, and even went 
so far as to assume a friendliness which might have 
reassured me had I not instinctively felt that it merely 
masked the old dislike. 

I was constantly the victim of mishaps, in the 
shape of missing and defaced books, ink mysteriously 
spilt or strangely adulterated, and, though I could 
never trace them to any definite hand, they seemed 
too systematic to be quite accidental ; still I made no 
sign, and hoped thus to disarm my persecutor — if 
persecutor there were. 

As for my companions, I knew that in no case 
would they take the trouble to interfere in m)’- be- 
half ; they had held aloof from the first, the general 
opinion (which I now perceive was not unjust) being 
that ‘‘I deserved all I got.” 

And my estrangement from Marjory grew wider 
and wider ; she never spoke to me now when we sat 
near one another at the drawing-class ; if she looked 
at me it was by stealth, and with a glance that I 
thought sometimes was contemptuously pitiful, and 
sometimes half fancied betrayed a willingness to 
return to the old comradeship. 

But I nursed my stupid, sullen pride, though my 
heart ached with it at times. For I had now come 
to love Marjory devotedly, with a love that, though 
I was a boy and she was a child, was as genuine as 
any I am ever likely to feel again. 

The chance of seeing her now and then, of hearing 
her speak — though it was not to me — gave me the 
one interest in my life, which, but for her, I could 


MARJORY. 


283 


hardly have borne. But this love of mine was a very 
far-off and disinterested worship after all. I could 
not imagine myself ever speaking of it to her, or 
picture her as accepting it. Marjory was too thor- 
ough a child to be vulgarised in that way, even in 
thought. 

The others were healthy, matter-of-fact youths, to 
whom Marjory was an ordinary girl, and who cer- 
tainly did not indulge in any strained sentiment re- 
specting her ; it was left for me to idealise her ; but of 
that, at least, I cannot feel ashamed, or believe that 
it did me anything but good. 

And the days went on, until it wanted but a fort- 
night to Christmas, and most of us were thinking of 
the coming holidays, and preparing with a not un- 
pleasant excitement for the examinations, which were 
all that barred the way to them now. I was to spend 
my Christmas with my uncle and cousins, who would 
by that time be able to receive me ; but I felt no very 
pleasurable anticipations, for my cousins were all 
boys, and from boys I thought I knew what to ex- 
pect. 

One afternoon Ormsby came to me with the re- 
quest that I would execute a trifling commission for 
him in the adjoining village ; he himself, he said, was 
confined to bounds, but he had a shilling he wanted 
to lay out at a small fancy-shop we were allowed to 
patronise, and he considered me the best person to 
be entrusted with that coin. I was simply to spend 
the money on anything I thought best, for he had 
entire confidence, he gave me to understand, in my 
taste and judgment. I think I suspected a design of 


MARJORY. 


284 

some sort, but I did not dare to refuse, and then his 
manner to some extent disarmed me. 

I took the shilling, therefore, with which I bought 
some article — I forget what — and got back to the 
school at dusk. The boys had all gone down to tea 
except Ormsby, who was waiting for me up in the 
empty schoolroom. 

“Well?” he said, and I displayed my purchase, 
only to find that I had fallen into a trap. 

When I think how easily I was the dupe of that 
not too subtle artifice, which was only half malicious, 
I could smile, if I did not know how it ended. 

“ How much was that ? ” he asked contemptuously, 
“ twopence halfpenny ? Well, if you choose to give 
a shilling for it, I’m not going to pay, that’s all. So 
just give me back my shilling ! ” 

Now, as my weekly allowance consisted of three- 
pence, which was confiscated for some time in advance 
(as I think he knew), to provide fines for my mysteri- 
ously-stained dictionaries, this was out of the ques- 
tion, as I represented. 

“Then go back to the shop and change it,” said 
he ; “I won’t have that thing ! ” 

“Tell me what you would like instead, and I 
will,” I stipulated, not unreasonably. 

He laughed; his little scheme was working so 
admirably. “That’s not the bargain,” he said ; 

you’re bound to get me something I like. I’m not 
obliged to tell you what it is.” 

But even I was driven to protest against such 
flagrant unfairness. “ I didn’t know you meant that,” 


MARJORY, 285 

I said, ‘ ‘ or Tm sure I shouldn't have gone. I went 
to oblige jyou, Ormsby." 

“No, you didn't,” he said, “ you went because I 
told you. And you'll go again.” 

“ Not unless you tell me what I'm to get,” I said. 

‘ ‘ I tell you what I believe, ” he said ; ‘ ‘ you never 
spent the whole shilling at all on that ; you bought 
something for yourself with the rest, you young 
swindler ! No wonder you won't go back to the 
shop.” 

This was, of course, a mere taunt flung out by his 
inventive fancy ; but as he persisted in it, and 
threatened exposure and a variety of consequences, I 
became alarmed, for I had little doubt that, innocent 
as I was, I could be made very uncomfortable by 
accusations which would find willing hearers. 

He stood there enjoying my perplexity and idly 
twisting a piece of string round and round his fingers. 
At length he said, “ Well, I don't want to be hard on 
you. You may go and change this for me even now, 
if you like. I'll give you three minutes to think it 
over, and you can come down into the playground 
when I sing out, and tell me what you mean to do. 
And you had better be sharp in coming, too, or it 
will be the worse for you.” 

He took his cap, and presently I heard him going 
down the steps to the playground. I would have 
given worlds to go and join the rest at tea, but I did 
not dare, and remained In the schoolroom, which was 
dim just then, for the gas was lowered ; and while I 
stood there by the fireplace, trembling in the cold air 
which stole in through the door Ormsby had left open, 


286 


MARJORY, 


Marjory came in by the other one, and was going 
straight to her father s desk, when she saw me. 

Her first impulse seemed to be to take no notice, 
but something in my face or attitude made her alter 
her mind and come straight to me, holding out her 
hand. 

“ Cameron,'’ she said, “ shall we be friends again ?” 

“Yes, Marjory,” I said ; I could not have said any 
more just then. 

“You look so miserable, I couldn’t bear it any 
longer, ” she said, “ so I had to make it up. Y ou know, 
I was only pretending crossness, Cameron, all the 
time, because I really thought it was best. But it 
doesn’t seem to have done you much good, and I did 
promise to take care of you. What is it ? Ormsby 
again ? ” 

“Yes,” I said, and told her the story of the com- 
mission. 

“Oh, you stupid boy !” she cried, “couldn’t you 
see he only wanted to pick a quarrel ? And if you 
change it now, he’ll make you change it again, and 
the next time, and the next after that — I know he 
will ! ” 

Here Ormsby’s voice shouted from below, “ Now 
then, you, Cameron, time’s up ! ” 

“What is he doing down there ?” asked Mar- 
jory, and her indignation rose higher when she 
heard. 

“Now, Cameron, be brave* go down and tell him 
once for all he may just keep what he has, and be 
thankful. Whatever it is, it’s good enough for him, 
I’m sure ! ” 


MARJORY. 287 

But I still hung back. “ It’s no use, Marjory, he’ll 
tell everyone I cheated him — ^he says he will ! ” 

“ That he shall not 1 ” she cried ; “ I won’t have it. 
Ill go myself, and tell him what I think of him, and 
make him stop treating you like this.” 

Some faint glimmer of manliness made me ashamed 
to allow her thus to fight my battles. “No, Marjory, 
not you ! ” I said ; “ I will go : I’ll say what you want 
me to say ! ” 

But it was too late. I saw her for just a second at 
the door, my impetuous, generous little Marjory, as 
she flung back her pretty hair in a certain spirited 
way she had, and nodded to me encouragingly. 

And then — I can hardly think of it calmly even 
now — there came a sharp scream, and the sound of 
a fall, and, after that, silence. 

Sick with fear, I rushed to the head of the steps, 
and looked down into the brown gloom. 

‘ ‘ Keep where you are for a minute ! ” I heard 
Ormsby cry out. “It’s all right— she’s not hurt; 
now you can comedown.” 

I was down in another instant, at the foot of the 
stairs, where, in a patch of faint light that fell from 
the door above, lay Marjory, with Ormsby bending 
over her insensible form. 

“ She’s dead ! ” I cried in my terror, as I saw her 
white face. 

“I tell you she’s all right,” said he, impatiently ; 
“ there’s nothing to make a fuss about. She slipped 
coming down and cut her forehead — that s all. 

“ Marjory, speak to me — don’t look like that ; tell 
me you’re not much hurt ! ” I implored her ; but she 


288 MARJORY, 

only moaned a little, and her eyes remained fast 
shut. 

“It's no use worrying her now, you know,” said 
Ormsby, more gently. “Just help me to get her 
round to the kitchen door, and tell somebody.” 

We carried her there between us, and, amidst a 
scene of terrible confusion and distress, Marjory, still 
insensible, was carried into the library, and a man 
sent off in hot haste for the surgeon. 

A little later Ormsby and I were sent for to the 
study, where Dr. Dering, whose face was white and 
drawn as I had never seen it before, questioned us 
closely as to our knowledge of the accident. 

Ormsby could only say that he was out in the 
playground, when he saw somebody descending the 
steps, and heard a fall, after which he ran up and 
found Marjory. 

“ I sent her into the schoolroom to bring my paper- 
knife,” said the Doctor ; “ if I had but gone myself ! — 
But why should she have gone outside on a frosty 
night like this ? ” 

“ Oh, Dr. Dering ! ” I broke out, “ I’m afraid — I’m 
afraid she went for me ! ” 

I saw Ormsby’s face as I spoke, and there was a 
look upon it which made me pity him. 

“And you sent my poor child out on your errand, 
Cameron ! Could you not have done it yourself ? ” 

“ I wish I had !” I exclaimed; “oh, I wish I had ! 

I tried to stop her, and then — and then it was too late. 
Please tell me, sir, is she badly hurt ? ” 

“ How can I tell ? ” he said harshly ; “ there, I can’t 
speak of this just yet : go, both of you.” 


MARJORY. 


3S9 

There was little work done at evening preparation 
that night ; the whole school was buzzing with curiosity 
and speculation, as we heard doors opening and 
shutting around, and the wheels of the doctor's gig as 
it rolled up the chestnut avenue. 

I sat with my hands shielding my eyes and ears, 
engaged to all appearance with the books before me, 
while my restless thoughts were employed in making 
earnest resolutions for the future. 

At last I saw my cowardice in its true light, 
and felt impatient to tell Marjory that I did so, to 
prove to her that I had really reformed ; but when 
would an opportunity come ? I might not see her 
again for days, perhaps not at all till after the 
holidays ; but I would not let myself dwell upon such 
a contingency as that, and, to banish it, tried to 
picture what Marjory would say, and how she would 
look, when I was allowed to see her again. 

After evening prayers, read by one of the assist- 
ant-masters, for the Doctor did not appear again, 
we were enjoined to go up to our bedrooms with as 
little noise as possible, and we had been in bed some 
time before Sutcliffe, the old butler, came up as usual 
to put out the lights. 

On this occasion he was assailed by a fire of eager 
whispers from every door : “ Sutcliffe, hi ! old Sutty, 
how is she ? ” but he did not seem to hear, until a cry 
louder than the rest brought him to our room. 

“For God's sake, gentlemen, don't!” he said, in 
a hoarse whisper, as he turned out the light ; “they'll 
hear you downstairs. ” 

“ But how is she ? do you know — better? ” 

19 


290 


MARJORY, 


‘‘Ay,” he said, “she’s better. She’ll be over her 
trouble soon, will Miss Marjory ! ” 

A low murmur of delight ran round the room, 
which the butler tried to check in vain. 

' “ Don’t ? ” he said again, “ wait — wait till morning. 

^ . Go to sleep quiet now, and Til come up first 
thing and tell you.” 

He had no sooner turned his back than the general 
relief broke outirrepressibly ; Ormsby being especially 
^ demonstrative. “Didn’t I tell you fellows so?” he 
said triumphantly ; “ as if it was likely a plucky girl 
like Marjory would mind a little cut like that. She’ll 
be all right in the morning, you see 1 ” 

But this confidence jarred upon me, who could 
not pretend to share it, until I was unable to restrain 
the torturing anxiety I felt. 

“You’re wrong-^all of you!” I cried, “I’m sure 
she’s not better. Didn’t you hear how Sutcliffe said 
it ? She’s worse — she may even be dying ! ” 

I met with the usual treatment of a prophet of evil. 
“You young muff,” I was told on all sides, “who 
asked your opinion ? Who are you, to know better 
than anyone else ? ” 

Ormsby attacked me hotly for trying to excite a 
' groundless alarm, and I was recommended to hold 
- my tongue and go to sleep. 

I said no more, but I could not sleep ; the others 
dropped off one by one, Ormsby being the last ; but 
I lay awake listening and thinking, until the dread 
V and suspense grew past bearing. I must know the 
truth. I would go down and find the Doctor, and 
beg him to tell me ; he might be angry and punish 


MARJORY, 


^91 

me — but that would be nothing in comparison with 
the relief of knowing my fear was unfounded. 

Stealthily I slipped out of bed, stole through the 
dim room to the door, and down the old staircase, 
which creaked under my bare feet. The dog in the 
yard howled as I passed the big window, through 
which the stars were sparkling frostily in the keen 
blue sky. Outside the room in which Marjory lay, I 
listened, but could hear nothing. At least she was 
sleeping, then, and, relieved already, I went on down 
to the hall. 

The big clock on a table there was ticking solemnly, 
like a slow footfall ; the lamp was alight, so the 
Doctor must be still up. With a heart that beat 
loudly I went to his study door and lifted my hand 
to knock, when from within rose a sound at which 
the current of my blood stopped and ran backwards 
— the terrible, heartbroken grief of a grown man. 

Boy as I was, I felt that an agony like that was 
sacred ; besides, I knew the worst then. 

I dragged myself upstairs again, cold to the bones, 
with a brain that was frozen too. My one desire was 
to reach my bed, cover my face, and let the tears 
flow ; though, when I did regain it, no tears and no 
thoughts came. I lay there and shivered for some 
time, with a stony, stunned sensation, and then I 
slept — as if Marjory were well. 

The next morning the bell under the cupola did 
not clang, and Sutcliffe came up with the direction 
that we were to go down very quietly, and not to 
draw up the window-blinds ; and then we all knew 
what had happened during the night. 


MARJORY, 


292 

There was a very genuine grief, though none knew 
Marjory, as I had known her; the more emotional 
wept, the, older ones indulged in little semi-pious 
conventional comments, oddly foreign to their usual 
tone ; all — even the most thoughtless — felt the same 
hush and awe overtake them. 

I could not cry ; I felt nothing, except a dull rage 
at my own insensibility. Marjory was dead — and I 
had no tears. 

Morning school was a mere pretence that day ; we 
dreaded^ for almost the first time, to see the Doctor s 
face, but he did not show himself, and the arrange- 
ments necessary for . the breaking-up of the school 
were made by the matron. 

Some, including Ormsby and myself, could not 
be taken in for some days,, during which we had to 
remain at the school : days of shadow and monotony, 
with occasional ghastly outbreaks of the high spirits 
which nothing could repress, even in that house of 
mourning. ' 

But the time passed at last, until it was the eve- 
ning of the day on which Marjory had been left to 
her last sleep. 

The poor father and mother had been unable to 
stay in the house now that it no longer covered even 
what had been their child ; and the only two, besides 
the matron and a couple of servants who still remained 
there, were Ormsby and I, who were both to leave 
on the following morning. 

I would rather have been alone just then with 
anyone but Ormsby, though he had never since that 
fatal night taken the slightest notice of me ; he 


MAR/OJRY, 


293 


looked worn and haggard to a degree that made me 
sure he must have cared more for Marjory than I 
could have iniagined, and yet he would break at 
times into a feverish gaiety which surprised and 
repelled me. 

He was in one of these latter moods that evening, 
as we sat, as far apart as possible, in the empty, fire- 
lit schoolroom. 

“Now, Cameron,” he said, as he came up to me 
and struck me boisterously on the shoulder, “ wake 
up, man ! Fve been in the blues long enough. We 
can’t go on moping always, on the night before the 
holidays, too ! Do something to make yourself 
sociable — talk, can’t you ? ” 

“No, I can’t,” I said ; and, breaking from him, 
went to one of the windows and looked vacantly out 
into blackness, which reflected the long room, with 
its dingy greenish maps, and the desks and forms 
glistening in the fire-beams. 

The ice-bound state in which I had been so long 
was slowly passing away, now that the scene by the 
little grave that raw, cheerless morning had brought 
home remorselessly the truth that Marjory was indeed 
gone — lost to me for ever. 

I could see now what she had been to me ; how she 
had made my great loneliness endurable ; how, with 
her innocent, fearless nature, she had tried to rouse 
me from spiritless and unmanly dejection. And I 
could never hope to please her now by proving that 
I had learnt the lesson ; she had gone from me to 
some world infinitely removed, in which I was for- 


MARJORY, 


294 

gotten, and my pitiful trials and struggles could be 
nothing to her any more ! 

I was once more alone, and this second bereave- 
ment revived in all its crushing desolation the first 
bitter loss which it so closely followed. 

So, as I stood there at the window, my unnatural 
calm could hold out no longer ; the long-frozen tears 
thawed, and I could weep for the first time since 
Marjory died. 

But I was not allowed to sorrow undisturbed ; I 
felt a rough grasp on my arm, as Ormsby asked me 
angrily, “ What’s the matter now ? ” 

“Oh, Maijory, come to me!” I could only cry; 
“ I can’t bear it 1 I can’t I I can’t I ” 

“Stop that, do you hear ?” he said savagely, “I 
won’t have it ! Who are you to cry about her, when 
— but iox you ” 

He got no further ; the bitter truth in such a taunt, 
coming from him, stung me to ungovernable rage. 

I turned and struck him full in the mouth, which I 
cut open with my clenched hand. 

His eyes became all pupil. “You shall pay me 
for that I” he said through his teeth ; and, forcing me 
against a desk, he caught up a large T-square which 
lay near ; he was far the stronger, and I felt myself 
powerless in his grasp. Passion and pain had made 
him beside himself for the moment, and he did not 
know how formidable a weapon the heavily-weighted 
instrument might become in his hand. 

I shut my eyes : I think I rather hoped he would 
kill me, and then perhaps I might go where Marjory 
was. I did not cry for help, and it would have been 


MARJORY. 


295 

useless if I had done so, for the schoolroom was a 
long way from the kitchen and offices of that ram- 
bling old house. 

But before the expected blow was dealt I felt his 
grasp relax, and heard the instrument fall with a sud- 
den clatter on the floor. “ Look,” he whispered, in 
a voice I did not recognise, look there I ” 

And when I opened my eyes, I saw Maijory 
standing between us ! 

She looked just as I had always seen her; I sup- 
pose that even the after-life could not make Marjory 
look purer, or more lovely than she was on earth. 
My first feeling was a wild conviction that it had all 
been some strange mistake — that Marjory was not 
dead. 

“Marjory, Marjory!” I cried in my joy, “is it 
really you? You have come back, after all, and it is 
not true I ” 

She looked at us both without speaking for a mo- 
ment ; her dear brown eyes had lost their old childish 
sparkle, and were calm and serious as if with a deeper 
knowledge. 

Ormsby had cowered back to the opposite wall, 
covering his face. “ Go away ! ” he gasped. “ Cam- 
eron— ask her to go. She — she liked you. ... I 
never meant it. Tell her I never meant to do it.” 

I could not understand such terror at the sight of 
Marjory, even if she had been what he thought her; 
but there was a reason in his case. 

“You were going to hurt Cameron,” said Maijory, 
at length, and her voice sounded sad and grave and 
far-away. 


MARJORY. 


296 

‘‘ I don’t care, Marjory,” I cried, not now you are 
here I ” 

She motioned me back: “You must not come 
nearer,” she said. “I cannot stay long, and I 
must speak to Ormsby, Ormsby, have you told 
anyone ? ” 

“No,” he said, shaking all over, “it could do no 
good. ... I thought I needn’t.” 

“Tell himj said Marjory. 

“ Must I ? Oh, no, no I ” he groaned, “ don’t make 
me do that ! ” 

“You must,” she answered, and he turned to me 
with a sullen fear. 

“ It was like this, ” he began ; ^‘that night, when 
I was waiting for you down there — I had some string, 
and it struck me, all in a moment, that it would be 
fun to trip you up. I didn’t mean to hurt you — only 
frighten you. I fastened the string across a little 
way from the bottom. And then” — he had to mois- 
ten his lips before he could go on — “ then she came 
down, and I tried to catch her — and couldn’t — no, I 
couldn’t ! ” 

“Is that all?” asked Marjory, as he stopped short. 

“I cut the string and hid it before you came. 
Now you know, and you may tell if you like ! ” 

“Cameron, you will never tell, will you — as long 
as he lives ? ” said Marjory. “ You must promise.” 

I was horrified by what I had heard ; but her eyes 
were upon me, and I promised. 

“And you, Ormsby, promise me to 'be kinder to 
him after this.” 

He could not speak ; but he made a sign of assent. 


MARJORY, 


^ 297 

** And how,” said Marjory, shake hands with 
him and forgive him.” 

But I revolted : “ No, Maijory, I can't ; not now — 
when I know this ! ” . > ^ 

“Cameron, dear,” she said, “you won't let me go 
away sorry, will you ? and I must go so soon. For 
my sake, when I wish it sdl ” 

I went to Ormsby, and took his cold, passive hand; 

“ I do forgive him, Marjory,” I said. 

She smiled brightly at us both. '“-And yOu won’t 
forget, either of you?” she said. “And, Douglas, 
you will be brave, and take your own part now. 
Good-bye, good-bye.” 

I tried to reach her. “Don't kave me; take me 
with you, Marjory — dear Maijory, don't go!” But 
there was only firelit space where she had stood, 
though the sound of her pleading, pathetic voice w^as 
still in the air. 

Ormsby remained for a few minutes leaning against 
a desk, with his face buried in his arms, and I heard 
him struggling with his sobs. At last he rose,’ and 
left the room without a word. 

But I stayed there where I had last seen Maijory, 
till the fire died down, and the hour was late, for I 
was glad to be alone with the new and solemn joy tha:t 
had come to me. For she had not forgotten me where 
she was ; I had been allowed to see her bnCe more, 
and it might even be that I should see her again. 
And I resolved then that when she came she should 
find me more worthy of her. 

From that night my character seemed to enter upon 


MARJORY. 


298 

a new phase, and when I returned to school it was to 
begin my second term under better auspices. 

My cousins had welcomed me cordially among 
them, and as I mastered the lesson of give and take, 
of respecting one’s self in respecting others, which I 
needed to learn, my early difficulties vanished with 
the weakness that had produced them. 

By Ormsby I was never again molested ; in word 
and deed, he was true to the promise exacted from 
him during that last strange scene. At first, he avoided 
me as being too painfully connected with the past ; 
but by degrees, as he recognised that his secret was 
safe in my keeping, we grew to understand one an- 
other better, although it would be too much to say 
that we ever became intimate. 

After he went to Sandhurst I lost sight of him, and 
only a few months since the news of his death in the 
Soudan, where he fell gallantly, made me sorrowfully 
aware that we should never meet again. 

I had a lingering fancy that Marjory might appear 
to me once more, but I have long since given up all 
hope of that in this life, and for what may come after 
I am content to wait. 

But the charge my child-friend had undertaken 
was completed on the night she was allowed to return 
to earth and determine the crisis of two lives ; there 
is nothing now to call the bright and gracious little 
spirit back, for her influence will remain always. 


THE END, 




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150> B JBafflfng (Slueet - - ; : By Richard Dowling 

* Is an unusually good specimen of the class of detective stories. 
The intefest is well sustained, the supposed crime desperate and 
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' Tells a story of intense dramatic power with great skill. After the 
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Mr. Dowling tells a story of mystery and crime in a bold,- 
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151; ^be XalrP Cocfepen ' - - - By Rita 

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Mrs. Meade, the editor of “Atalanta,” is one of the most. repre- 
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153, ^tne Ipeople • - , By Rudyard Kipling 

A collection of short stories lately published in English maga- 
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. and military life in India. . . 

If we may judge from the wealth of resource, the calm and 
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157. irn tbe Ibeart of tbe Storm ^ - By Maxwell Gray 

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159. XLbCVC l6 IRO 2)catb • By Florence Marryat 

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162, Sunng Stories anP Some Sba&g <S)neg 

^ ” ... By James Payn 

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The Icelandic Saga has given Mr. Haggard a theme after his 
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165, XLbc •UHorlg), tbe jflesb, an& tbe 2)evil 

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166. 1be 3fell Bmong XLbicvce 

By David Christie Murray and Henry Herman 

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The last story from the pen of that vigorous and skillful author 
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JOHN W. LOVFLL company, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. 


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